


Love like Poison

by voxofthevoid



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Role reversal, Attraction at first sight, Cannibalism, Canon Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Hannibal Not A Cannibal, Hannibal on the other hand..., Hannigram - Freeform, Ill-fated love, M/M, Manipulation, Nah he'll be fine, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ripper!Will, Serial Killer!Will, Will is though, Will so doesn't need saving, discontinued, people are going to die of course, semi-good Hannibal, suicide of a minor character, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1839553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Role reversal AU. In which Will Graham- teacher and part time profiler- is the Chesapeake Ripper and Hannibal Lecter is an unusual psychiatrist who’s called in to consult for the F.B.I. </p><p>A meeting between the two leads to a relationship that will leave no one unscathed. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Some people are just meant to meet and not always for the best.<i></i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vienas

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mirror Switch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/836763) by [small_secret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/small_secret/pseuds/small_secret). 



> I’ve been obsessed with Role Reversals ever since I read a Naruto fanfic on ffnet which reversed Sakura and Itachi’s roles. I was halfway through season 1 when the idea of switching Hannibal and Will hit me. Then, I read Mirror Switch by small_secret and the idea just started _plaguing_ me. It took me this long to actually begin writing, but I have most of this planned out.
> 
> Enjoy!

The past is never where you think you left it.

\- Katherine Anne Porter

 

_Everything is white and wet, stretching on and on as far as he can see. No trees, no animals… just the unforgiving expanse of thick, white snow. He thinks he hates the color. He knows the sky is drab and grey above him, obscuring the sun and whatever warmth it may bring. The air is cold- so cold that every breath is pure agony, his insides nearly freezing with the frigid draft that saturates his lungs. His body hurts and he knows his feet are bleeding, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop._

_He has to find her._

_He wants to call out, to scream her name but he opens his mouth and all that comes out is a white puff of air. So he keeps on walking, forcing his tiny legs to push through the knee-deep snow that makes every step a struggle. He needs to find her, but all he can see is white. No flash of pale gold hair or big, honeyed eyes anywhere. He hopes to hear a child’s voice calling out to him (Annibal?) but even the slick sounds of his own pursuit are muted in his ears._

_He walks for what feels like hours- and wonders how he is still alive when he shouldn’t be- when he sees it. A blurry, dark spot far in front of him. He stops in shock and then he is moving, faster than before._

_He is close and he thinks he sees a glint of gold amongst all the white._

_Then, he is there and all he can see is red._

 

Hannibal Lecter jerks awake with a choked gasp, his sister’s name a reverent mantra in the confines of his mind.

_Mischa._

He doesn’t sleep again that night.

* * *

 

Freddie Lounds has to be the most _tasteless_  journalist to ever exist. She is obnoxious, inexorable and utterly shameless. Her articles are also wonderfully detailed, which, as far as he is concerned, is their only redeeming quality. But while the woman and her words are vile, this particular serial killer interests him quite a bit. And he has no doubt- like Jack- that this man is killing the girls despite the appalling lack of bodies, save the recent Elise Nichols.

Will almost- almost, mind you- wishes that he’d accepted Jack’s offer to consult on the case, but he dismisses the thought just as quickly. It is too risky, no matter how tempting the fresh scenes are. He’ll have to be satisfied with the ones he himself is responsible for. And he can’t really have additional F.B.I scrutiny curtailing his extracurricular activities. Rejecting Jack also has the added benefit of keeping Alana Bloom happy. She is so easy to manipulate with her mixed interest in him.

He looks up from his tablet as he hears footsteps approaching and puts it away just in time to see none other than Jack Crawford enter his classroom with Alana in tow. Maybe he should have got the hell out of there after the end of his lecture instead of lurking around to read the article. Oh well, too late now. Jack looks displeased and his frown only deepens when his eyes fall on Will. Apparently, he is still miffed about his refusal to work for him. Jack’s not a man who took rejection happily or even calmly. Alana is frowning at Jack and he has the feeling that if it were up to her, the head of BAU wouldn’t get within a 10 mile radius of Will. It’s almost adorable, her protectiveness. In another life, he could have loved her.

“I suppose you haven’t reconsidered.” Jack grits out in lieu of a greeting, looming over Will in a vain attempt to be domineering. He fights off a smile. It would be… inappropriate.

He doesn’t bother to dignify the remark with a response and instead offers a timid smile to Alana, whose expression softens for a second before she returns to glaring daggers at Jack.

“I just read Lounds’ article on Tattlecrime,” he says, finally focusing on a fuming Jack, “Tell me, how many confessions as of yet?”

“Twelve dozen, last time I checked. No one knew the details until she published that damn article. Will, are you _sure_ you won’t reconsider?” The man was almost as persistent as Lounds.

“I told you already, Jack, I can’t do field work. I’ll help you with this guy any way I can, but I am not going out there. It’s not healthy for me. Dr Bloom agrees.” Jack nods grudgingly, making no effort to hide his displeasure but he apparently doesn’t want a repeat of yesterday’s argument-or rather, a three way screaming match- so he lets the matter drop. For now. Alana relaxes at his acquiescence and comes to stand by Will. Her attraction to him is all too obvious despite her earnest efforts to hide it and her struggle to contain it is a constant source of amusement for him, which is why he often gives out signals that suggest he reciprocates the feeling.

Humans are so very interesting to play with. But dogs are better company.

“So, why are you guys here?” he asks as he packs his tablet and his notes, waiting. He’s quite certain Jack didn’t come here only to try to get him to work for him again. He wouldn’t have brought Alana if that were the case.

Alana is the one who answers though, her voice somewhat nervous. “There’s this colleague of mine… Dr Hannibal Lecter. He was my mentor in John Hopkins and is currently running a practice in Baltimore. We were wondering if you would work with him to catch this killer.”

Oh, so that’s why she is nervous. She wants him to work with a psychiatrist but is all too aware of his hatred for them.

“You want me to work with a psychiatrist… are you sure he’s not going to forgo the investigation in favor of psychoanalyzing me?” It sounds presumptuous, Will knows, but experience has proved that he is like catnip to psychiatrists. Fortunately (for him) their futile attempts to ‘figure him out’ were generally laughable at best. He’s even managed to make a few cry by turning their own tricks on them. Sweet Alana is quick to reassure him though.

“No, Will. You know I wouldn’t do that to you. Hannibal is different.”

 _Is he now?_ Will nods and smiles at her. “If you say so.”

“The two of you are going to see him now. Copies of the case files are in Dr Bloom’s car. Get a move on.” Jack leaves with another heated glare at Will, his steps brisk and loud in the empty corridor. Annoyed at his almost petulant behaviour, Will briefly toys with the idea of leaving a little something for dear Uncle Jack. Perhaps the Chesapeake Ripper should come out soon and say ‘hi’…

Silence reigns between the two of them as he follows Alana to her car. He knows she is nervous about being alone with him, fearing her own inability to keep her interest in him- personal and professional, though mostly the former- in check. But they part at the parking lot as he heads towards his own car. Riding with her would have offered him a great opportunity to watch her squirm, but he isn’t all that keen on having her drop him back home.

As he follows her Hybrid out of the Academy grounds, he hopes that this new psychiatrist will be at least a little interesting.

* * *

 

Will had expected them to meet the psychiatrist in the practice Alana had mentioned. But he realizes, as her car pulls into a large, lovely house in the rich, residential suburbs of Baltimore, that the meeting is to occur at the man’s home. The house is quite beautiful, possessing a quality that stands out even amidst the other, opulent residences in the area.

Alana’s movements, as she leads him to the door, tells him that she is familiar with this place. She is at more at ease here than he has ever seen her before. Dr Lecter must be a very good friend of her.

“Hey, Will, Hannibal doesn’t know that _two_  of us are coming. Jack kinda sprung that on me at the last minute.” She tells him as they wait by the door. He is not entirely surprised. He knows how Jack can be, even though he has not known him for long. The door opens mere seconds after she finishes, revealing a tall man who Will assumes is the esteemed Dr Lecter. He certainly looks the part.

The man’s face breaks into a small, but genuine smile at the sight of Alana but it acquires a somewhat confused tilt as he takes Will in. Alana is quick to introduce him.

“Hannibal, this is Will Graham. He teaches profiling at the Academy and Jack wants his help on the profile of this killer.”

“Hello, Dr Lecter.” He extends his hand, twisting his lips into a thin smile. It is rare for him to initiate contact, but exceptions can be made. Lecter grips it with his own and gives a firm shake. His hands are like that of an artist, fingers long and nimble. And to Will’s relief, there is no gleeful recognition or morbid curiosity in that gaze as they exchange pleasantries.

The interior of Lecter’s home is even more pleasing than the exterior, elegant and quite stunning. However, Will finds that they tell him little about the man himself which is intriguing in itself. He can generally get a good sense of people from where they live. Lecter guides the two of them to his sitting room and quickly excuses himself to grab some refreshments.

“This is a nice place,” he tells Alana when they are alone, fidgeting a little on the plush couch. Some of his restlessness is genuine, but most of it is a show meant to broadcast his uneasiness with people.

“Hannibal has excellent taste,” she replies fondly and the man in question enters the room, carrying a tray with two glasses of deep red wine and another that contains an amber liquid Will assumes is beer. He hands the latter to Alana, passes a glass of wine to Will with a smile and settles on the chair opposite them with his own in hand. There is an easy grace to the man, even when he is motionless, that Will finds alluring.

“So, what is this about exactly? Agent Crawford told me that he’d like my help profiling a killer, but he gave me no details.” Will tries in vain to place the doctor’s smooth, exotic accent. It sounds European but he can’t quite pinpoint the source. But he can admit that it’s a voice he’d love to fall asleep to. He resists the urge to frown at his own thoughts.

He tunes out Alana as she replies in favor of observing the psychiatrist. He has a remarkable face, with high, carved cheekbones, thin lips and dark eyes that are a unique mixture of brown and red. It’s not traditionally handsome, but it is rather striking. Very much so. The slate grey button-down and black slacks does not reveal much, but Will easily recalls the effortless grace of his movements and _approves._ Then, there’s the voice. And those lovely hands. Yes, he most certainly is interested and not quite in the way he expected.

It is a rare occurrence for him to be physically attracted to a person. Even when he is, it is usually short-lived as the attraction wears off once he manages to unravel the mind of the person. He usually finds them dull and malleable afterwards. Alana is an example of this, though she is too entertaining to bore him completely.

He hopes that Dr Hannibal Lecter will prove to a little less mundane.

Maroon eyes capture his before he can look away and he is momentarily annoyed at being caught staring. But something in that gaze causes him to smile none too innocently and Dr Lecter shifts his eyes back to Alana. He too returns his attention to her words.

“- and so Will is here with me. Actually, I’m only here to introduce you two. I won’t be working on the case.”

No surprise there. Alana isn’t all that comfortable with profiling despite her remarkable observational skills. She prefers to work with traumatized women and children. He wonders what Lecter’s specialty is.

“I’ll get the files then.” Will says as he rises from his seat, placing the untouched glass of wine back on the tray. He leaves the two of them and makes his way to Alana’s car. Most of it is information about the missing ( _dead_ ) girls. There is little to work with thanks to the lack of bodies and crime scenes. They don’t even know where most of the girls were taken from. Figuring out why the Nichols girl’s body was left behind would be a good start. Then again, Will has never needed much in the way of evidence; his ability is to connect with killers, letting him see things others wouldn’t. Of course, his empathy would work on anyone but normal people’s minds are so… bland. Not worth the effort.

Alana is on the phone when he returns with the files, sounding distressed. He throws Lecter a questioning glance and receives a shrug in answer. He sets the files on the couch beside Alana and sits down, waiting for her to finish. All he can gather from her replies is that she is needed somewhere immediately. And sure enough, she disconnects the call and gets up, face set into a pained grimace.

“Is everything alright, Alana?” Lecter asks, rising with her. So does Will.

“Yeah, I mean, No. It’s one of my patients. There’s been an emergency and I need to go. Do you… can the two of you manage?”

Will nods, all too pleased with the sudden turn of events. He would like to interact with the doctor without a buffer. “I know the way back. Its fine, Alana.”

But she still seems hesitant, evidently worried about her abrupt departure. Will’s legendary aversion to anything that walks on two legs and can talk probably has something to do with that.

“We’ll manage, Alana.” Lecter tells her calmly. That decides her and she practically flees the house with a flurry of apologies directed at the two of them. How like Alana to be so concerned for those under her care.

“She cares very much for her patients,” Lecter says into the awkward silence in her wake, echoing his thoughts.

“That she does.” He debates for a second on what course of action to pursue and finally decides to be quick and blunt. “Just so we’re clear, Dr Lecter, are you going to psychoanalyze me?”

The older man blinks at him, surprised by the sudden question, and then smiles, little sheepishly.

“I’ll admit that I am curious, but I’ll try to rein it in. Though you should know that I can’t shut it off just like that. Observing is what we do, after all.”

At least he got an honest answer.

“Let me warn you then, that you won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed. Plenty have tried, Doctor.” He expects the other man to be offended or at least put off, but all he does he stare intensely at Will, the remnants of a smile still playing on his lips.

“Then I suppose we can just socialize like adults. Please, call me Hannibal.”

He doesn’t strike Will as one to socialize all that freely; he is quite sure that the doctor’s reserved air and stoic countenance is not just for show. Even Will can’t quite read him, and that in itself is enough to pique his interest. Still, for a second, he is tempted to tell the man he doesn’t find him all that interesting just to gauge his reaction. But he decides against it in the end as he is sure that he’ll end up eating his words.

“Call me Will, then.”

* * *

 

Hannibal feels a surge of mild panic when Alana leaves, leaving him alone with one Will Graham. He notes the worried glances she sends Professor Graham as he rushes out and remembers her saying once that he was ‘not a fan of people’. Hannibal isn’t overly fond of socializing either- most people are dreadful company and some are just downright _rude_ \- but his profession and philanthropist tendencies render it necessary, so he can fake it well enough.

Although, he is genuinely interested in interacting with the younger man. Maybe a little _too_  interested, hence the panic.

He’s torn between surprise and relief when he bluntly addresses the topic of psychoanalysis. The ensuing banter only serves to further promote his fascination; he is not used to talking so… freely and the change is more than welcome, at least in the current company. It is all too easy to see that Graham is unique, and not simply because of his empathy. There is something about the man that’s different, though he can’t really pinpoint _what_. But if he is honest with himself, he can admit that it is not just his interest in the teacher’s mind or personality that causes his gaze to wander and linger on his handsome, somewhat boyish face, taking in the artfully tousled brown curls, stunning blue-grey eyes, the light stubble and those pale pink lips. Clad in a simple, but fitting suit, Will Graham seems far too _beautiful_  for a teacher.

He surprises himself by offering his name, a spur of the moment decision, but is relieved when the invitation is returned in kind. It's rather unlike Hannibal to take to someone so quickly and easily, with so little interaction but he really can't blame simple, intellectual curiosity for his interest in the younger man.

“So, Will-” he starts, liking how the name rolls off his tongue,”- shall we begin?”

 

TBC

 

 


	2. Du

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It doesn’t take long for the door to open, revealing a young woman who fits the killer’s profile so perfectly that any doubts Hannibal harbors regarding the accuracy of Will’s guess vanishes entirely at the sight of her. Jack evidently feels the same as he wastes no time barging inside, flashing his badge at the bemused girl._
> 
> _“Garret Jacob Hobbs!” Hannibal hears him shout, “This is the F.B.I.” ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so damn long. <3

There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.

\- John Lennon

 

“These files are pretty much everything we have on the case.” Will tells him as he quickly separates the files into two separate stacks. “This,” he says, pointing to the larger one, “-is the info about the dead girls. Most of it is pretty useless though. The other one focuses solely on Elise Nichols. It also has her autopsy report, which no one has looked over yet. We have that dubious privilege.”

Hannibal is no stranger to crime and has even helped the F.B.I before on a few occasions. But he can’t deny that there is something fascinating about this particular case. That’s probably the reason for this excitement he feels, which is rather rare unless it is related to the culinary arts. Or maybe, it has something to do with his current company. Either way, he is eager to get started.

He reaches for the information about the missing girls to acquaint himself with the case. The faces of eight young women stare back at him from a page, some smiling, some serious. One of the faces is somewhat familiar thanks to Freddie Lounds’ article on _Tattlecrime_. But these girls could've been sisters or cousins with the uncanny resemblance in their appearances. 

“They all look incredibly alike.” He remarks, raising his eyes to Will only to find that he is observing Hannibal instead of examining the report in his lap. And he doesn’t seem even the least bit embarrassed at being caught in the act. Hannibal smiles despite of himself.

Will nods, “Same hair color. Same eye color. They’re all roughly the same age, weight and height. Also very… Mall of America.”

“He’s abducting these girls because of their appearance. Perhaps they are substitutes for someone else. Someone special.” His observation is met with a sharp nod and pleased smile as Will leans back more comfortably on the couch, crossing his legs and making himself comfortable. Hannibal feels like he has passed a test and doesn’t know whether to smile or frown.

“He’s like Willy Wonka.” Will tells him, one finger tracing meaningless patterns on his knee. “Every girl he takes is a candy bar. His Golden Ticket is the true, intended victim. He hasn’t killed her yet, I think. He loves her and so he feels an extension of that love for the rest of these girls.”

Hannibal has no idea who Willy Wonka is but he can nonetheless understand the gist of the analogy. And he is impressed and morbidly fascinated, because he is quite sure that it is not solid evidence that led Will to these conclusions. He has heard a bit about Will’s gift of empathy from Alana- with a fair amount of careful coaxing- but it is another thing entirely to see it in action and he can’t help but wonder how the younger man would fare in an actual crime scene.

He pushes the thoughts away and forces himself to focus on the task at hand.

“So this psychopath loves these girls… does that have something to do with Elise Nichols being tucked back in bed?”

Will frowns at something in the file he holds and looks up. He gently pats the space beside him, inviting Hannibal to take the seat. He is more than a little shocked as he obeys, as Alana did warn him that Will has an aversion to people and prefers to avoid all contact with them. Yet, here he is, casually inviting Hannibal to share his personal space. Then again, Will really has not behaved like he expected ever since his arrival, so it is entirely possible that Alana was mistaken in her assessment of the empath.

Hannibal is just as surprised by how effortless it is for him to interact with the younger man, the boredom that generally plagues him in most social settings blissfully absent for the moment.

He sits down beside Will, their knees almost brushing, and Will slides the report towards him so that it is balanced on both their legs.

“This is Elise Nichols’ autopsy report. What do you see?”

It doesn’t take him all that long to spot an… interesting detail amongst the familiar, medical terms.

“Her liver was removed and then sewed back in. She had liver cancer.” An idea, preposterous and unlikely, forms but he can’t quite push it away. He raises his eyes to Will who’s staring at him expectantly.

“Is he eating them?”

“I believe so.” Will returns his gaze to the report; lips pursed and eyes contemplative as he reads it again.

A cannibal. That conclusion, which feels right though it’s not yet confirmed by solid evidence, only serves to further increase Hannibal’s interest in the case. This person, whoever he is, is driven by motivations that are vastly different from that of most psychopaths. It’s not simple, unbiased professional curiosity that captivates him so, but rather a fascination with the darkest of minds that Hannibal has long since identified within himself.

“This is a very interesting killer.” Hannibal murmurs, eyes trained on Will to gauge his reaction to the words. He is not disappointed when, instead of looking at him with shock or horror, Will just offers a wry grin, blue eyes twinkling beautifully. Hannibal has just enough time to think that sitting this close to the man was a bad idea when Will’s words jerk him out of his decidedly unprofessional thoughts.

“Yes, _interesting_. Now we just need to find him.”

* * *

 

Will is utterly delighted by a chance to sift through the mind of a kindred spirit, something he's not had a chance to do in a very long time. 

Though he can’t say that he’s all that appreciative of this fellow cannibal’s motivations. To him, eating these girls is a way to honor them. He risked getting caught to tuck Elise back into bed, the only apology he could offer for ‘failing’ her. A sensitive psychopath who’s practically paving the path for his own destruction. To Will, the men and women he kills are nothing but cattle. There’s no point in ‘loving’ meat.

The only other thing they find useful in the files is the pipe threading metal Jack’s team found. It isn’t much, but it’s pretty much all they have except an unusual profile constructed from intuition rather than solid facts. They conclude their discussion- which extended for longer than either party had planned- with an agreement to follow up on that the next day. Will finds himself somewhat reluctant to leave and he blames it mostly on Hannibal’s easy acceptance of their murderer’s cannibalism.

While he is pleased by the doctor’s keen observational skills and accurate deductions, it’s the genuine fascination with which he reacted to that particular bit of news that really hooks Will. His reaction had been remarkable in how _different_ it was. And rather similar to his own. It was so very refreshing.

_“This is a very interesting killer.”_

Will, though, is a lot more intrigued by the psychiatrist than the man they are hunting.

Actually, he feels practically _buoyant_ from the delight of finding a new, captivating specimen to play with. He has a feeling- and his feelings rarely fail him- that Hannibal Lecter is a man like no other.

“We may need to go to Minnesota tomorrow. Will you be coming?” he asks as he stands up and gathers the files.

“How could I say no?” Hannibal replies with a smile. “Will Agent Crawford be accompanying us?”

“I have no idea. I’ll call him once I get home and tell him what we found. I’ll let you know what he says. But I think we’ll end up going to Minnesota.”

It’s already quite late and it’ll be even more so by the time he gets back to Wolf Trap. He doesn’t mind, though. The evening was so very worth it.

“It was a pleasure working with you, Hannibal.” He says, once the files are all in his hands. “And I assure you, that is not something I say often.”

Hannibal’s eyes crinkle merrily at the corners as he smiles yet again, extending a hand to Will. He grips it with his free hand, but simply gives it a firm squeeze instead of shaking.

“I am honored. But, Will, the pleasure was all mine.”

He is fully mindful of the fact that they remain like that for longer than is appropriate, but he is quite content to stare into those smiling, exotic eyes with a wolfish grin of his own. He is aware of the familiar _hunger_ that rises within him, one that doesn’t diminish even after they let go of each other and Hannibal escorts him to the door. But that hunger is tempered with an appetite of _another_ kind that he is all too eager to indulge in. Not yet, but _soon_.

“Are you sure I cannot persuade you to stay for dinner?” Hannibal inquires once they’re at the door. Will shakes his head and turns to face the other man.

“No, it’s getting late. I’ve got a long drive home. Maybe another time.”

His answer draws a mildly disappointed look and he is glad- though not all that surprised- to see that he is not the only one who found the evening enjoyable, despite the context. Well, for Will, their topic of discussion only made it more so.

“Another time, then. Goodbye, Will.”

“Bye.”

* * *

 

Jack, while skeptical about finding anything from checking out metal pipe threaders, seems to have an unhealthy amount of faith in Will’s gift. It is easy to convince him to let Hannibal and Will go to Minnesota to follow up on that lead. Jack will be accompanying them, of course. After all, neither Will nor Hannibal are actual F.B.I agents.

Jack remains outside the trailer office as he and Hannibal heads inside to sort through the records. The secretary-who introduces herself as Dixie- is not particularly pleased about their presence and makes no effort to hide it. He is more than a little annoyed by her incessant and ineffectively hushed chatter on the phone but ignores it in favor of combing through the files in search of anything of note.

He finds it in the form of the resignation letter of one Garret Jacob Hobbs who, Dixie informs him, is one of their pipethreaders.

“Did Mr Hobbs have a daughter?” Will asks her, staring not at the woman but at the letter as if it would yield him some answers. Hannibal is silent beside him but Will can feel the curiosity radiating off him.

“Might have.”

He finally looks up at the not-so-helpful answer. “Eighteen or nineteen, wind-chaffed? Plain, but pretty. She’d have auburn hair. About _this_ tall.” He knows, even before he hears her answer that there’s nothing she can offer. He turns to Hannibal and answers his question before it is voiced.

“He left a phone number. No address.”

“So he has something to hide?” On most, the question would be laced with a fair amount of skepticism but the doctor seems willing to accept Will’s abnormal reasoning.

“Everyone else left an address.” Then, to Dixie, “Do you have an address for Mr Hobbs?” 

The woman tests his patience, taking an inordinate amount of time to produce the address; a house in Minnesota. 

Once outside, he is tempted to accompany Jack and Hannibal to Hobbs’ house- Jack would be easy to convince seeing how he was actually expecting Will to go with them - but refrains. Curiosity did not trump caution in his book.

Yet.

He might be wrong- though he doubts that very much- but if he isn’t, he is quite certain that Garret Jacob Hobbs is not going to go down without a fight; his exposure to the man’s psyche is limited to pictures and leftover evidence, but even that is enough to assure him of the fact that his capture will not be easy.

He doesn’t bother to enlighten Jack of this as he and the doctor drive off towards the address given. After all, there is no reason to make this easy for them. Or for Hobbs, which is why he chooses not to warn the man of the people coming for him.

As he returns inside and flips noncommittally through the rest of the records, his mind is busy reconstructing various scenarios of what might happen.

* * *

 

Hannibal is rather disappointed when Will chooses not to come with them, reminding Jack sharply that he is not interested in field work. He would’ve liked to see Will’s empathy in action when faced with a suspect. Although, if such exposure is too much for Will’s mind, then it’s probably better that he stayed behind. He genuinely doesn’t want him to be subjected to any unwanted duress. It's not often that Hannibal is so intrigued by another human being and the desire to keep him around for longer is only natural. For him, that is. And to be honest, no one else has ever caught his attention like this. It’s not just Will’s unusual mind that interests him, but the man himself. Conversing with the teacher was stimulating and a rare experience, Will’s unique thoughts and insights adding a new dimension to it all.

Simply put, he likes Will.

The drive to Garret Jacob Hobbs’ house is filled with an awkward silence. Jack Crawford doesn’t seem all that comfortable making small talk with him and Hannibal is quite content to remain silent. His initial meeting with the agent- in his office- did little to endear the man to him, something that has yet to change.

The house at the given address is cozy and unobtrusive, fitting in nicely with the rest of the residences in the vicinity. Hannibal exits the car along with Jack and lets the agent take the lead as they head towards it. Jack knocks harshly on the door a couple of times, badge already in hand.

It doesn’t take long for the door to open, revealing a young woman who fits the killer’s profile so perfectly that any doubts Hannibal harbors regarding the accuracy of Will’s guess vanishes entirely at the sight of her. Jack evidently feels the same as he wastes no time barging inside, flashing his badge at the bemused girl.

“Garret Jacob Hobbs!” Hannibal hears him shout, “This is the F.B.I.”

He turns to the confused girl by the door with a small smile.

“What’s going on? Why is the F.B.I here?”

Hannibal is about to answer when a shrill scream from inside the house garners their attention. They both rush inside and freezes when they find a woman, who he assumes is Mrs Hobbs, collapsed on the floor near the wall, seemingly unconscious. Old instincts take over and he ignores the petrified girl in favor of crouching beside the fallen woman and checking her vitals.

“She’s alive, merely unconscious. You need not worry.” He tells the girl who drops to her knees besides her mother, taking the woman’s hand in hers.

Hannibal rises from his crouch with the intention of searching for Jack or the girl’s father. But that’s rendered unnecessary by the definite sound of a gunshot from the direction of the backyard and he heads toward it, quick but cautious. He acutely feels the absence of a weapon on his person. The gun goes off once more before he gets there.

He’s greeted by the sight of a balding, middle-aged man curled into a ball on the ground, clutching a profusely bleeding wound on his stomach. Jack stands a little ways away; gun still trained on the wounded man that he assumes is Garret Jacob Hobbs.

“Agent Crawford?”

The man raises his eyes to Hannibal and nods once, decisively.

“Could you call for an ambulance, Dr Lecter?”

* * *

 

The rest of their time in that house passes in a near blur, but Hannibal’s disciplined mind can recall every single detail with perfect clarity. A blessing and a curse, as the quiet sobbing of the young woman- whom he later finds out is called Abigail- combined with the prone form of her mother and her bleeding, barely conscious father doesn’t really make for entertaining, let alone _pleasant_ , memories.

Jack’s bullets did enough damage to prevent the man from escaping but they did little to curb his desire to kill his daughter, resulting in a litany of nonsensical threats and pleas that only serves to further unnerve the girl. For his part, Hannibal is dismayed by the entire display.

The ambulance arrives along with the local law enforcement and Mr Hobbs is strapped up and taken to the hospital. So is Mrs Hobbs, who has a concussion from where her head was slammed against the wall by her husband. Hannibal, at Jack’s behest, watches over Abigail Hobbs during all the chaos. It’s probably the shock of all the recent events that makes her give it away so easily, but it is all too evident to him that she was not unaware of her father’s crimes. Something tells him that she might have been an accessory as well.

Hannibal wonders what Will would have made of her.

He doesn’t mention his suspicion to Jack, having no desire to ruin a girl’s future based on a hunch. He doesn’t even question her. As a matter of fact, once she has composed herself, he doesn’t really speak to her at all, resolutely ignoring the irrational part of himself that wants to offer some measure of comfort.

She is not Mischa; doesn’t even bear any resemblance to his long gone sister. Even their situations couldn't be more different. It doesn’t make sense for the sight of unchecked panic in Abigail's eyes to remind him of _her_.

He drives Abigail to the hospital where her parents are, though he is quite certain that she will not be allowed to see them just yet. At least, not until the police takes their statements. Even then, he doubts that she’ll get to visit her father.

Once there, he leaves her in the care of a local police officer who seems willing to help her out, but he remains at the hospital. Jack is still here, after all, and he _is_ eager to see how this will all play out.

And so that is where Will finds him later that evening.

* * *

 

It’s Jack who calls Will in the afternoon, some time after he has settled into his rented motel room, providing a quick rundown of the day’s events in a gruff voice. He sounds surprised but not displeased when Will offers to join them there. There is no actual reason for him to go, of course, but he would very much like to hear the details of everything that happened in person. Or rather, he would like to hear them in person from Hannibal Lecter.

It takes him about an hour to reach the hospital. Jack is easy enough to find, in the company of the local officers and medical staff, but Hannibal is not there with him. The head of the BAU is too busy to do much more than offer him a quick greeting and point him towards where he’s last seen the doctor.

Will finds him in the hospital cafeteria, nursing a cup of coffee and looking ridiculously out of place in his impeccable, three-piece suit.

“Hey,” he greets as he gracefully slides into the seat opposite him, liking the way the other man’s eyes crinkle in a pleased smile at the sight of Will. Up close, he seems quite tired but not all that upset but the day’s events. Good.

“Will! I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Jack called me. I didn’t really have much to do and thought I’d come here.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Hannibal tells him, draining the last of the coffee and setting the cup aside. He licks his lips as if to chase away the taste and Will tracks the motion with some interest.

“So, you gonna tell me what happened, doc? All I got from Jack was that he shot Mr Hobbs after he tried to escape after knocking out his wife.”

Hannibal shrugs noncommittally and leans forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. “There’s not much to say. The daughter opened the door when we got there. She fit the profile to the very last detail. Even after he was incapacitated, Garret Hobbs seemed quite devoted to killing her.”

“Well, he has quite a few problems.” Will replies with a smile, trying to hide his disappointment at how boring the arrest had been. Maybe he should have warned Hobbs, to spice things up a bit. He is quite interested in the daughter, though. The one who ‘inspired’ her father so.

“Yes, a few. You ever have any problems, Will?”

“Nope. You?”

“Of course not. You and I are just alike then. Problem free.” Will laughs at the doctor’s teasing remark, amused at the thought of them being alike. Wouldn’t that be… fun.

“They’re calling him the Minnesota Shrike, after the bird.” He informs the doctor. Apparently a single body recovered, showing all signs of being impaled on stag antlers, is enough to inspire such a name.

“An interesting name. I wonder who came up with it.” Will shrugs in response. It’s not a bad name, though he didn’t really understand society’s need to give dramatic monikers to serial killers. Most of the time, it only served to add to the horror factor.

That said, he is rather fond of his own. ‘The Chesapeake Ripper’ does have lovely, macabre ring to it.

“What do you think about his daughter? The Golden Ticket. What’s her name?” Will doesn’t miss the dark look that passes over Hannibal’s face at the mention of the girl, piquing his interest.

“Abigail.”

Will waits to see if he’s going to say anything else. He doesn’t.

“Abigail Hobbs. Knowing Jack, he’ll probably get either one of us to interview her. Or maybe Alana. She’s good with family trauma. But tell me, Hannibal, why don’t you like Ms Hobbs?”

His persistence and bluntness wins him a small, lopsided smile that somehow makes the doctor appear younger.

“Is it that obvious?”

Will shakes his head, grinning. “Not at all. But I do possess an excessive amount of empathy.”

“I do not particularly dislike her. But I find myself reluctant to get further involved with her or this case.” Hannibal is a pretty good liar, something which he approves of and appreciates. But the evasive answer only fuels his determination to know the actual reason. For now, he can be patient.

One thing is for sure though, Hannibal Lecter is going to get further ‘involved’ with this case whether he likes it or not.

 

**TBC**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Abigail and her mother are interrogated, Hobbs escapes and these two kiss.
> 
> Will here doesn’t really need ‘field kabuki’ to understand Hobbs better as his empathy is a lot more advanced and controlled. He is also more intimate with the workings of a serial killer’s mind. So, Cassie can live for now.  
> Please point out any and all errors you find.


	3. Trys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I couldn’t save a man. It wasn’t the first but it was one too many.” Hannibal tells him with an expression of regret that is only skin-deep, once again rousing his interest. “Human minds seemed to be a better- and safer- option. I’ve yet to kill anyone with my therapy.”_
> 
>  
> 
>   _Will chuckles at the morbid joke and opts to just watch silently as Hannibal bustles about the kitchen with familiarity and ease._
> 
>    
>  _But he finds it quite hard to rid his mind of the image of the man wielding a scalpel over a live, screaming body._
> 
>    
>  _It is a surprisingly compelling image._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three words:  
>  _Suspension of Disbelief._
> 
> I have no idea how the actual F.B.I interrogation stuff works, so I winged it. Enjoy!

It’s harder to heal than it is to kill.

\- Tamora Pierce

 

Hannibal is no stranger to popularity. He is however, completely unaccustomed to having his face, address and credentials plastered across a notorious crime blog by an even more notorious ‘journalist’. He has no idea how Freddie Lounds managed to slither her way into a fresh crime scene, but she must have somehow if the photo on _Tattlecrime.com_ is any indication. It showed Hannibal and a distraught Abigail Hobbs in front of the girl’s house in Minnesota. He had an arm around her shoulders and there were tears trailing down her face as she awkwardly clung to him.

He remembers the moment all too well. It was only seconds after both Mr and Mrs Hobbs were loaded into an ambulance to be taken to the hospital. Abigail, who’d been relatively calm, though shaken and scared, until then, had abruptly begun crying. It’d taken him only a little time and effort to calm her down, his experience as a psychiatrist aiding him greatly. They had left for the hospital soon after.

His lips press into a thin, furious line as he continues to read the article, which contains little more than wild speculation about the so called Shrike murders and an unnecessary evaluation of his own work in the medical and psychiatric fields. The entire thing lacks any actual credibility, but as usual, it’s explosive and engaging. To the general, ignorant mass at least.

Hannibal doesn’t know if he’s more angry at the inappropriate invasion of his privacy or at Lounds’ less than subtle jabs at whether or not Abigail and her mother Louisa were complicit in Garret Jacob Hobbs’ crimes.

As far as speculations go, it’s not all that far-fetched (especially in the girl’s case), but the damage such accusations can cause is extensive and inflicting that on two people- and one who has her whole life before her- without any _actual_ proof is callous and _distasteful_.

“One of these days, that woman is going to bite off more than she can chew.”

A familiar voice breaks him out of his contemplation and Hannibal’s head whips around, only to find none other than Will Graham standing behind his chair, eyeing the article on his iPhone with an expression of clear disgust on his face. A breath he wasn’t aware he was holding rushes out of him and he leans back into his seat as Will moves to take the chair beside him.

“I didn’t hear you come in.” Hannibal’s not one to be startled all that often, his keen sense of smell aiding him even when the others failed.

Will shrugs nonchalantly, a hand fiddling with a pen on the desk before them. “You seemed pretty absorbed in that article. I’m guessing you’re here because of Jack?”

Hannibal nods, eyes flicking towards the door in search of any sign of Agent Crawford. He left the hospital in Minnesota the other day after agreeing to Crawford’s request to come to the BAU headquarters to sit in on the interview of Abigail and Louise Hobbs. When he arrived this morning, an intern led him to Crawford’s office and left him there.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s still waiting for the man to show.

“Are you here to see Agent Crawford?” Hannibal asks the younger man, the article ignored in favor of much more worthwhile pursuits.

“He wants me to help with the Hobbs. It almost feels like Jack’s trying to get back at me for refusing to do field work.” Will’s words are accompanied by a small twitch of the lips that suggest more amusement than annoyance at the agent’s antics. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Yes. Although Alana might be a better fit for this, given her specialty is family trauma.”

“She’ll probably have her turn.” Will turns slightly in his chair to look at Hannibal, a quizzical furrow between his brows, “I thought you didn’t want to involve yourself any further with this case.”

Hannibal has to fight off a grimace at the empath’s words, an echo of what he himself had said earlier in a hasty effort to escape certain questions from Will. It’s not really the case that he’s wary of, but Miss Hobbs and whatever secret she’s hiding. And he can’t really say that to Will without relaying his suspicions, something which he has no intention whatsoever of doing. Yet.

“I changed my mind,” he says instead, smiling. “I find that I am still quite interested in Garret Jacob Hobbs and his… motivations.” At least that is completely true.

Will doesn’t react but he gets the feeling that the other man doesn’t quite buy Hannibal’s reasoning. His next words, soft and casual as they are, confirms as much.

“You don’t strike me as the type to do that much.” Will tells him, blue-grey eyes as intense as ever as they hold Hannibal’s gaze.

“Do what?” he counters needlessly, knowing precisely what Will is referring to.

Wiil’s lips twist into a sly smile and he says, “ _Change your mind_. You seem to be someone who knows _exactly_ what he wants.”

For a second, he considers asking Will if he’s flirting with him, but the consultant’s smirk and the gleam in his eyes make it quite clear that, _yes, he is_. Hannibal smiles in spite of himself, not quite missing how accurate the observation itself is. It’s strange to be in the company of someone who can actually read him, but he supposes that is one of the consequences of befriending an empath.

“I suppose I am,” he concedes, but does not elaborate further. Will seems content enough with abandoning the earlier line of inquiry. His eyes flicker once to the device in Hannibal’s hand, no longer showing that offending article.

“At least she didn’t trash you. Freddie Lounds has a tendency to do rip apart her victims.”

 _Victims_. Interesting word choice, but true nonetheless. Lounds _is_ a predator, only a different breed from the ones Hannibal is familiar with.

“I’m afraid Garret Jacob Hobbs’ family wasn’t that lucky.”

“They can always sue for libel later. You know, doc, you’re very photogenic.” Hannibal blinks, surprised by the abrupt remark and is about to retort when the door to the office opens and Jack Crawford walks in, drawing both his and Will’s attention.

“Dr Lecter. Will. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” There isn’t really much of an apology in Jack’s words and the smile he offers them is strained as he takes his seat behind the desk.

“Louise and Abigail Hobbs are here. I’ll take you both to them shortly. But before that, I need you both to tell me, based on your understanding of Garret Jacob Hobbs, if it is possible that he had an accomplice. Or two.”

The quick look he shares with Will over the agent’s words turns out to be a mistake as Will’s eyes light up in realization, filling Hannibal with a mixture of wonder and dread. Wonder at how effortlessly Will connected Jack’s query with Hannibal’s unease about Miss Hobbs. Dread because of the conversation that is sure to follow.

He need not have worried.

“Hobbs killed alone.” Will answers with such conviction that anyone would be disinclined to challenge him. “What he felt for these girls… he would never have shared that with anyone else. They were precious to him, _sacred,_ and no one would be able understand that. He knew that. But whether or not they were aware of his crimes is another matter entirely. People do strange things for family. What do you think, Dr Lecter?”

“It’s possible.” Hannibal does not turn to look at Will even though he can feel his eyes burn into the side of his head. He wonders what the man expects him to say. Even he’s a little unsure. Should he defend a girl- a pointless endeavor, given Crawford’s expression- he doesn’t even know for any particular reason, other than an slight reluctance to ruin her future. Or should he share his theory despite that fact that it is simply just that. A theory, an opinion based on uncanny instinct rather than any concrete facts. His intuition is more than enough for Hannibal to come to conclusions most of the time, but then there is the gravity of the situation to consider.

And does any of it even matter? Jack Crawford does have the air of a man who already knows the answers he wants and will not stop until he gets them.

A compromise, then.

“I agree with Professor Graham that Garret Jacob Hobbs murdered those girls alone. The mother may or may not have known. But the daughter is much more likely to have been aware of her father’s obsession.”

Jack nods, seemingly satisfied by their answers for the time being. In his peripheral vision, he can see Will turning away from him to focus again on the agent.

But something tells him that the dreaded conversation may still happen. A bit privately, perhaps.

“Well, let’s go then. Will, you’re going to interview Abigail Hobbs first.”

* * *

 

Abigail Hobbs in the flesh is not immediately recognizable as the sobbing, red-faced girl whose picture he saw this morning in Lounds’ latest article.

Her clear blue eyes are wide awake and nervous as she stares at Will, occasionally flitting to the one way glass behind which Jack and Hannibal are standing, observing them. But young as she is, she’s not able to perfectly project the image of an unknowing victim of such horrifying events. The quiet calculation in her eyes is a little too evident to anyone who knows how to look. And he, Hannibal and even Jack most certainly know how to do just that.

“Hello, Abigail.” He keeps his voice low and soft, curling his lips into a small smile that he hopes is as reassuring as it is false.

This is not really Will’s expertise. His way with words is to rip and tear, to break a person down to their core components, to destroy them so thoroughly that they will never put themselves back together again. His words are his weapons, his gift.

But then, no one knows that.

And at the moment, he is far too curious about this girl to break her. It is tempting though, _very_ much so.

“Hi.” Her voice wavers, just a little bit, and it is not entirely an act. But she still has quite a lot to learn. No wonder Hannibal was able to see the truth about her so easily. The reason why the doctor kept silent about it was a different matter entirely, one that compounded his interest in both the man himself and this girl. The same can be said for his reluctance to involve himself further with Miss Hobbs.

So many questions, so few answers.

For now though, Will is focused more on figuring out exactly what about this one fuelled the flames of her father’s insanity and created such a tender monster out of him. Did he see in her a darkness akin to his own? Or was it her purity that called to him with so profoundly? If he could, he would put father and daughter in a room, just so he could observe them to his heart’s content.

“I know this is hard for you and your mother, but we need to talk to you. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Abigail?”

“Yeah. I’d like to help any way I can.”

Will nearly smirks. Nearly.

“Have you ever noticed anything strange about your father, especially recently?”

“He’s always been a bit strange. But normal strange, you know. He had OCD as well, insisted on cleaning everything by himself and all that, but I didn’t see anything wrong with that.” There are tears in the corners of her eyes and she casts them down to stare at the hands she has balled into tight fists at the top of the steel table. “He was a good dad. He took good care of me and my mom. He was always nice and caring. He wouldn’t even yell at me when I did something wrong.”

Will is certain that every word of that is true. He can’t imagine Hobbs treating his precious daughter with anything less than complete devotion and adoration. And it’s a smart move on Abigail’s part to tell the truth about him and save the lies for when it matters.

“Is there anything else you can tell me? Like where we may be able to find the bodies of those girls?”

“You’re not going to find them.” Abigail replies with a jerky shake of her head. “He…he’s always said that, when you hunt, you have to honor every part or it would be just… murder. He would have… honored those girls. He even used to make plumbing putty from elk bones, most of the work in the house, he did by himself. You’ll have to tear it all down to find anything.”

_Honor every part._

How very droll. Will never did have much respect for sentimental killers.

Will sees a flash of pure fear in Abigail’s eyes as they glaze over and wonders, with hidden amusement, if she is imagining how her father may have honored _her_.

He reaches out slowly and covers her tiny, shaking hands with his own, smiling calmly when she startles back to herself.

“I’m sorry, Abigail. I’ll wrap this up quick.”

He receives a sharp nod in answer but she doesn’t pull her hand away and he leaves his own in place, an offering of comfort when he wants nothing more than to try and break her.

“Did you know or even suspect anything about what your father was doing?”

Her answering ‘No’ is a bit too quick but nothing that can’t be put down to shock and outrage.

“How about your mother?”

“Oh God, no. Mom would never hurt anything. She was always furious at my dad for teaching me how to hunt. She would never…no.”

Will pulls back his hand with another small smile, inwardly pleased at how she did not give away anything solid for Jack to use. He will still have his suspicions, Hannibal will still _know_ , but they have yet to find _proof_. Abigail did not confess to anything, despite her fear.

_Smart girl._

* * *

 

Hannibal’s interview of Louise Hobbs similarly yields no results.

The woman isn’t even half as entertaining as her daughter and Will’s interest in her is swiftly replaced by boredom when she bursts into tears just a few questions in, not an act but genuine hysterics.

_Dull. Normal._

So he alternates between keenly watching how Hannibal handles her- the careful, empathetic approach and the ease with which he calms down Mrs Hobbs leads Will to think that the man must be a damn good psychiatrist- and enjoying the palpable frustration that practically rolls off Jack in waves.

Will is once again tempted to kill someone just for a chance to watch Jack run in circles trying to catch the oh-so-elusive Ripper.

Jack storms out without a word a few moments before Hannibal returns to the observation room, looking as pristine and unperturbed as ever.

“I take it Agent Crawford is not pleased.” He states as he joins Will by the large, glass window with a pale, red-eyed woman on the other side.

“He’s not a man used to not getting what he wants. There’s no actual evidence against these two. Even that cabin Hobbs owned was more or less clean, though there were a lot of deer antlers apparently. Jack was hoping that they’d confess to something and I doubt he’s given up.”

“Understandable, given the nature of Garret Hobbs’ crimes but I sincerely doubt that Mrs Hobbs was an accomplice. There’s a pause, barely noticeable, before Hannibal’s next words. Telling, in a way. “What do you think of Abigail Hobbs?”

“Oh, she knows something.” Will replies but doesn’t elaborate further. He is confident that Hannibal must have put together a lot of the details by now. Hell, even Jack seemed to have done it.

After all, it is all too obvious that Abigail would make the perfect lure. Hobbs’ crimes all showed a certain amount of intimacy with the lives and schedules of his victims but it wouldn’t have been possible for a middle aged man to stalk or befriend so man teenage girls without attracting at least some unwanted scrutiny. Abigail though, was ideal for the role. Will is a fisherman himself. He can appreciate the tactic.

“But you already knew that, didn’t you, Hannibal?” He asks the doctor as they both watch Mrs Hobbs being escorted out of the room.

Beside him, Hannibal tenses almost imperceptibly but relaxes just as quickly, his breath leaving him in a quiet chuckle.

“You realized in Jack’s office.”

“It makes sense. You were so clearly fascinated by the case but wary of the girl. For good reason, I suppose. Why didn’t you tell Jack before he asked?”

Will turns to face him, focusing the entirety on his attention on the older man. Hannibal meets his gaze unflinchingly and Will is pleased to see that his eyes show none of the anxious defensiveness most would at being called out in such a manner. The man is as calm as ever and there are the beginnings of a smile at the corners of his lips.

“Do you find it so strange that I would wish to refrain from accusing someone so young and with her entire life ahead of her? After all, I had nothing but a hunch about her involvement.”

Will doesn’t really roll his eyes, but it’s a very close call.

“That’s not quite true, is it? You’re a lot like me. Our ‘hunches’ are rarely just that.”

To Hannibal’s credit, his face gives away nothing at the words despite their truth.

“What else do you think my reason is, Will?”

Will takes his time with the answer; analyzing, dissecting the little things he’s gathered from the enigmatic man, pleasantly surprised when his empathy is not as useful as it generally is. Still, he manages to associate the slight disturbance he'd sensed in Hannibal that day at the cafeteria with the gentle concern with which he’d held Miss Hobbs in Lounds’ picture and arrives at a conclusion that, if true, has the potential for some fun.

“I think you _are_ reluctant to destroy her future. But,” he smiles a little there, eyes trained carefully on Hannibal, “I think that you didn’t want to involve yourself further with Abigail Hobbs because you’re worried you may get attached.”

The way the other’s eyes widen is the only confirmation he needs and Will grins in genuine delight. Not just at correctly inferring Hannibal’s reason but also at how the man has surprised Will more in the last few days than anyone else has managed in his entire life.

“Your empathy truly is remarkable.”

“And you can work on your subtlety a bit more. Don’t worry, doc, I’m not going to pry. I’m sure you have your reasons.”

_I’ll learn them eventually._

Hannibal is silent for a second before he inclines his head at Will.

They stand there quietly for a while for no particular purpose. The interviews are over and Will doubts that either of them would be needed further for this particular case. Jack would not need consultants to deal with Hobbs, not with the evidence against him.

He’s certain though that this will not be the end of his acquaintance with Hannibal Lecter.

“I guess I should leave.” He says and the disappointment in his voice is only mostly faked. “I have a class this afternoon.”

“And I have patients.” Hannibal seems to hesitate for a second, looking contemplatively at Will before he says, “Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow evening?”

 _Finally_. He was beginning to wonder if the doctor would require a stronger nudge than Will’s entirely transparent attempts at flirting.

“A date after just three meetings. I’d say we’re moving fast.” He takes a moment to enjoy the way Hannibal flounders with a response before adding, “Hey, I’m not complaining. Where?”

“My home. I am vey careful about what I put into my body. I prefer to personally procure and cook my food.”

_Funny, so do I._

“Time?” Will asks, hiding his amusement at the other’s choice of words. He idly wonders if he’ll be able to convince Hannibal to partake in his choice of meat one day. Will doesn’t usually _share_ with anyone other than his dogs, but there is a first time for everything, right?

“Dinner will be ready by eight but I would not be opposed to you arriving early.” Hannibal replies, smiling warmly, unaware of the thoughts coursing through Will’s mind.

Will smiles back, resists the urge to bare his teeth in a predatory grin and says, “I’ll be there by 7:30.”

* * *

 

That night, he looks up Hannibal on the internet. The first article that pops up is, unsurprisingly, Freddie’s but the rest are all mostly society pages, singing the man’s praises. There is some information on his residency at Johns Hopkins and Will learns that Hannibal used to be a surgeon. There are quite a number of pictures, all showing Hannibal in those ridiculous three-piece suits that somehow seems to suit him quite well. Will was right, the man was _very_ photogenic.

On his personal history, there is very little other than the fact that he used to live in France before he came to America. But he is fairly certain that the doctor is not French and resolves to inquire about his origins when the opportunity presents itself.

He is feeding his dogs- a young college student from Cumberland who’d had a penchant for prepubescent girls- when his phone rings, Jack Crawford’s name flashing on the screen.

“Hello, Jack.”

“Will. Garret Jacob Hobbs escaped from the hospital a couple of hours ago.”

He simply blinks in response to the abrupt announcement.

“Any casualties?”

“Two nurses killed. A guard knocked unconscious.”

“Why are you telling me, Jack? You don’t need me to find him, that’s standard police work.”

“No, I know that.” He can almost taste Jack’s fury and vexation even through the phone and it brings a smile to his lips, hidden to all but the eyes of his canine companions. “I just called to ask if you have any ideas on what he’s going to do now.”

“He’ll try to find his daughter. He’s desperate, Jack. Whatever sanity he might have retained is probably long gone by now, lost to his obsession. I doubt he’ll stop until he finds her.”

Or die trying. Hobbs is probably not in the best physical condition now.

He hears a muttered curse from the other side and waits patiently for Jack to respond.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. His family is in protective custody for now. Bye, Will.”

His smile only widens after he call ends, delighted at this new development. He truly was disappointed by the ease with which Hobbs had been apprehended. Even now, there is a high chance that he'd be caught before he could do anything, but at least there’s the _potential_ for some entertainment.

Because, though Jack may not know this, Freddie Lounds’ obscene, public article and that lovely little picture accompanying it makes Hannibal a perfect target for the murderer on the loose.

After all, a desperate man with such limited resources has to work with anything he can get and a civilian consultant is certainly an easier target than the F.B.I.

And Will has faith that Hobbs’ ‘love’ for dear Abigail will spur him on quite nicely despite the unfavorable circumstances.

* * *

 

Will is mildly surprised when Hannibal opens the door dressed in neat black slacks and a deep burgundy dress shirt that fit him _very_ well but are downright tame when compared to the three-piece suits he wears in public.

“Will, please come in.” Hannibal greets with a wide smile, stepping aside to let him in. He doesn’t miss the way the doctor’s eyes covertly run over the length of his body, clad in a simple suit similar to the one he'd worn during their first meeting.

He steps inside and allows Hannibal to take his coat before presenting him with a bottle of wine he purchased on the way here. Will himself prefers whiskey to wine but Hannibal sipping delicately at a glass of vintage is an image that seems quite apt.

“The guy in the shop picked it for me. He said it was good and I sincerely hope he’s right.”

“Thank you, Will.” The response and the accompanying smile are effortlessly charming in a way that should endear Hannibal instantly to pretty much anyone. Will is not just anyone but even he’s pleased in a distant sort of way by the warmth and the smiles.

“I was putting the finishing touch to our dinner. Would you like to join me in the kitchen or would you rather remain in the living room?”

Of course, he picks the former and is led out of the foyer and into a space that turns out to be the most well equipped kitchen he’s ever seen, with state of the art implements. Will is no chef but proficiency in the culinary arts was something he mastered at a young age for no other reason than to sustain his proclivities. Cooking human meat did require a certain amount of skill.

And that is why he finds himself thoroughly admiring the elaborate room and its owner with a wide grin on his face.

“I was under the impression that you were a psychiatrist, doctor, not a professional cook.”

Hannibal laughs at that, showing crooked teeth that seem to suit his sculpted face in a strange way.

“Cooking is simply a passion of mine. I did consider taking it up professionally after I gave up surgery but I was afraid that I would lose my enjoyment of the act if I did so.”

Will smiles and blinks, caught off guard yet again by the doctor.

_You just keep getting more and more fascinating._

“You were a surgeon? Why’d you quit?” None of the articles had mentioned the reason for his sudden transfer to psychiatry.

“I couldn’t save a man. It wasn’t the first but it was one too many.” Hannibal tells him with an expression of regret that is only skin-deep, once again rousing his interest. “Human minds seemed to be a better- and safer- option. I’ve yet to kill anyone with my therapy.”

Will chuckles at the morbid joke and opts to just watch silently as Hannibal bustles about the kitchen with familiarity and ease.

But he finds it quite hard to rid his mind of the image of the man wielding a scalpel over a live, screaming body.

It is a surprisingly _compelling_ image.

Though he finds it strange to just hang back and let Hannibal do the work, or whatever’s left of it, he gives up trying to assist after his offer is rejected for the third time. It isn’t long before he finds himself seated before a meticulously set table as Hannibal serves him a plate of artfully arranged food that looks as if it should belong on the table of some posh restaurant.

“Flank steak braciole, stuffed with winter greens.” Hannibal informs with a fair amount of pride and affection directed at the food. Will hides a smirk behind his hand as the man continues to pour him a glass of wine, claiming in an authoritative voice that the Malbec would pair perfectly with the meat.

But all his slightly bewildered amusement at Hannibal’s palpable enthusiasm flees at the very first bite when a mélange of complex flavors practically _explodes_ on his tongue. It takes a fair amount of willpower to hold back a throaty moan and Will’s eyes flutter close at the undoubtedly divine taste. When he forces them open to stare at Hannibal in amazement, he finds the other looking back at him with a blatantly smug smile on his face.

Will can’t even bring himself to feel miffed.

“Wow.” He whispers, lips parting in a truly genuine smile as pure delight lights up Hannibal’s face at his breathless praise.

“Thank you, Will.” Hannibal tells him without even an attempt at humility.

And if Will’s mind is suddenly overtaken by thoughts how exquisite his chosen fare would taste under Hannibal’s masterful cooking, well, the other man doesn’t need to know that.

There is little conversation between the two of them for the rest of the meal, Will savoring each and every bite with a dedication that he generally reserves only for the much less acceptable type of meat he prepares.

Desert- something that Hannibal claims is ice-cream but tastes nothing like any ice-cream Will has ever tasted before- is just as delicious as the main course and he tells the other as much, chuckling when Hannibal preens at the words.

He has always been hypersensitive to pretty much everything around him and though Hannibal _is_ quite discreet, the quick, darting glances aimed at him doesn’t escape Will nor does the way Hannibal’s burgundy eyes often linger on his lips as they close in around his fork. Will fights back a smile and instead puts on a show, working his mouth around the food in a manner that is deliberately teasing.

Will understands better than most the importance of subtlety but he’s also certain that engaging in a dance of hints and innuendos with the good doctor will only lead to a prolonged courtship that he has no interest in enduring. Will has never been one for patience except in those occasions where it was necessary.

So it is with a sly smirk and a challenging glint in his eyes that he leans over the table towards Hannibal, pausing only when his lips are merely an inch away from the other’s.

He remains like that even as Hannibal’s eyes go wide in shock but doesn’t move to cover that final inch.

It’s _Hannibal_ who cautiously, hesitantly presses their lips together in a brief, chaste kiss.

Will pulls back almost immediately, smiling in victory and Hannibal shoots him a look that is part shock, part incredulity.

“You’re very… direct.” The doctor murmurs, hands clutching the edge of the dinner table in a tight grip.

“When the occasion calls for it.” He agrees with another smirk, sparing a rueful glance at his empty plate. It truly was a delicious meal. “It seemed better to just clarify where we are with each other.”

Hannibal just blinks in response, looking a little dazed. He’s probably the kind of guy who prefers the kind of prolonged courtship that Will is eager to avoid, someone who delights in slow, sweet seduction. What he doesn’t know is that for Will, seduction is just another form of hunting and his hunts always end up on his dinner table, not in his bed.

Hannibal Lecter is not food to him, not yet. He is _prey_ , certainly, but not meat.

A more direct course of action is preferable.

Despite being caught off guard by the sudden kiss, Hannibal recovers fairly quickly and there’s even a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he stands and clears the table that makes it clear that he’s hardly disappointed by how the evening had gone.

Will once again follows him into the kitchen, idly contemplating whether or not Hobbs will call on Hannibal. He called Jack in the morning only to hear that there were no helpful leads. He wonders whether Hannibal is aware of the risk, however slight, that he’s in. Probably. The man has far too keen a mind to miss something like that and Hobbs’ escape is hardly a secret.

He’s about to bring up the very same topic to Hannibal, just to see the man’s reaction, when a loud crash from the foyer interrupts them.

* * *

 

It has been nearly twenty four hours since Agent Crawford called him to inform him that Garret Jacob Hobbs had escaped from the hospital in Minnesota. And even after the possibility that Hannibal himself maybe a target thanks to Lounds’ descriptive article crossed his mind, he refrained from seeking any protection. Mostly because it was just a very mild chance and he did not want to come off as paranoid. He told himself that if the worst happened, he was far from helpless.

The vague threat did not prevent him from thoroughly enjoying his dinner with Will. His obvious appreciation of Hannibal’s cooking was wonderful to behold and while the kiss was more than a little shocking, he wasn’t exactly complaining.

He was actually looking forward quite eagerly to an evening spent in conversation with the engaging man.

But now, staring at the somewhat familiar face of Garret Hobbs, unkempt and with a wild light in his eyes, in his own _home_ , he feels trepidation well up within him. Beside him, Will is as still as a statue. Hannibal’s eyes flicker to the gun in Hobbs’ hand, pointed squarely at their chests. A part of his mind wonders how he even acquired a firearm.

Despite the insanity and exhaustion that is etched on to every plane of his body, Hobbs’ voice is clear when he asks, “Where is my Abigail?”

Unsurprisingly, the question is directed at Hannibal. His grip tightens involuntarily on the knife he'd grabbed from the kitchen on a whim.

“I don’t know where she is, Garret.” He replies, automatically adopting the firm, soothing voice he employs on his especially distressed patients.

But Hobbs just shakes his head with jerkily, in no state to listen to reason. The hand that holds the gun trembles and Hannibal frowns when he sees a spot of crimson appear on the man’s battered shirt.

It’s a miracle how he’s made it this far unharmed.

“Yes, you do.” Hobbs’ voice now has a manic edge to it, his desperation growing as his body becomes weaker. “I know you do. I saw you with my girl. I need her, need to… find her. Where?”

“Your daughter is with the F.BI.” It’s Will who answers and if the situation has unnerved him, it certainly doesn’t show. “She’s in protective custody. We can take you to her, but you need to put down the gun and come with us, Garret.”

“You’re lying.” Hobbs seethes as his whole body starts shaking. “You’re lying. You- you’ll just take her away from me. My baby girl. You can’t-”

Suddenly, Hobbs jerks forward as if he’s about to topple and once again, it’s instincts instilled deep in his psyche that prompts Hannibal to take a step forward, his knife-free hand reaching for the man.

He knows the move was a mistake when he sees Hobbs eyes widen but before he can react, the gun goes off once, the sound nearly deafening in the close confines of his foyer.

Hannibal expects pain but instead he feels heat and his eyes, which he closed on reflex, flash open to find Will kneeling on the floor near him, clutching his blood-soaked shoulder.

He feels a moment of pure shock which is followed by _rage_ that sends his blood boiling.

Hobbs staggers another step towards them and Hannibal _moves_.

* * *

 

Will is not one who likes to rely on fickle things like _luck_ but he can’t help but admit to himself that his current situation is the _perfect_ result of a chain of events facilitated by nothing but chance. Hobbs’ sudden escape, Freddie’s article, Hannibal’s reluctance to seek protection, Will’s own presence in Baltimore at such a convenient time… all a series of completely unexpected incidents that he’s all too eager to appreciate.

He has always liked to ‘play’ with people; to coax and threat and manipulate to get the desired results but experience has taught him that humans are often so _very_ entertaining when left mostly to their own devices.

And that is why he feels nothing but elation as he sits with some difficulty on the cool floor, one hand clutching at the flesh wound on his shoulder. Granted, it’s not a predicament most would deem as ‘perfect’ but Will is hardly normal. Besides, the choice to intercept the bullet in a manner that would not cause him much difficulty now or in the future was completely deliberate on his part. As much as he liked Hannibal, it was not the need to protect the man that prompted him but rather a desire to see how it would spur the doctor into action.

After all, the man did take the time and trouble to grab a knife off the rack. It would a pity not to grant him a chance to use it.

He wants to know if Hannibal Lecter is actually as harmless as appears to be. If he is, well, Will is certainly in a sate fit enough to dispose of Hobbs without arousing too much suspicion, not with his experience working in homicide.

Though something tells Will that it may not come to that.

He barely feels any pain as he watches Hannibal lunge forward with the grace of a dancer, light reflecting off the wickedly sharp edge of his knife. Hobbs, whose coordination skills seem to have deserted him almost completely, tries to raise the gun only to have it fall from his grip as the tremors wrecking body intensifies. Not surprising, given how the man was wounded, in pain and utterly exhausted. It must have been sheer determination, born of his all-consuming obsession with his daughter, that got him this far. And that can only do so much. Still, he doesn’t collapse or even back down, opting instead to launch himself at Hannibal with a feral snarl.

Will expects a brief fight, expects Hannibal to win, putting that knife to good use maybe.

He does not expect to see Hannibal sink the blade into the other man’s heart in a single, harsh thrust. He does not expect to see such an easy, efficient kill.

He'd wished for a confrontation like this for mere curiosity’s sake. A desire to see what effect the traumatic would have on Hannibal. Not even the doctor’s death being a possibility dismayed him enough to warn him.

This, though, is so much _more_ than _anything_ he anticipated.

Hobbs drops to the floor, the knife still buried hilt-deep in him. He’s dead before he hits the ground. Will watches with a dazed smile as Hannibal stands above the man, rooted to the spot.

He wants to see his _face_.

As if reading his mind, Hannibal starts to turn and he only just manages to clear the delight off his face before the other can see. There’s shock on Hannibal’s face, but no confusion, no _fear_. His torso, hands and face are splattered with blood, none of it his own.

Will wants to kiss him until he’s breathless, wants to lick the blood off his skin.

The shock recedes from Hannibal’s eyes as they fall on Will and he rushes forward, drawing his phone from his pocket as he drops to his knees beside Will. He only barely hears Hannibal mutter something abrupt assaults and injuries into his phone, focused more on the blood that tantalizingly paints his face.

This close, he smells intoxicating, a delectable mix of blood, sweat and _Hannibal_.

He keeps himself in check and manages to force a pained grimace as Hannibal curls an arm around his shoulders and gently removes Will’s hand to press his own against the wound.

“Are you okay?” Will asks him, voice husky not with pain but from pure, visceral excitement.

“I’m not the one who took a bullet, Will.” He replies softly but Will continues to simply stare at him until Hannibal sighs in defeat and says, “It doesn’t feel real yet. But… I will be fine. I think.”

_Yes, you will be._

Will thinks with a hidden smile as he leans into Hannibal’s warm, solid body.

_I’ll make sure of it._

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not like this chapter. At all. Damn. Sorry guys, I know this feels forced but all this had to happen.  
> *sigh*


	4. Keturi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I want to kiss you,” he says, flicking his eyes down to the other’s lips before meeting his gaze again._
> 
>  
> 
> _There were no explicit sexual or romantic undertones to their interactions while Will was in the hospital but the attraction was ever present, in lingering glances and gentle touches. Will was content enough then to give it some time, to let Hannibal dictate the pace for a while._
> 
>  
> 
> _But now, they’re in Will’s house and Hannibal is so conveniently here and… why wait?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know very little about medicine and associated procedures. I did some research on the internet, but that’s it. Bear with me, dear readers.

If you ever once looked at me with what I know is in you, I would be your slave. 

\- Emily Bronte

 

By the time his week-long recovery slowly, painfully draws to a close, Will is just about ready to slaughter the entirety of the hospital staff to get out of the miserable place. He’s despised hospitals ever since his very first visit to one. Something about the sterile smell of death that lingers in its halls and the blank faces one sees everywhere inside has always rubbed him in all the wrong ways. 

His constant sour expression is mistaken by all as a sign of his distress over his injury and its consequences. 

None see it as the sheer frustration over this pointless confinement. 

Yes, he is injured but it’s a minor flesh wound, deliberately acquired though others- especially a certain psychiatrist- seem intent on seeing it as some sort of heroic deed. And it’s far less cumbersome than the stabbing incident that preceded his resignation from the police force. This entire thing is a complete waste of time, something Will truly abhors. At least none of his very few visitors expect him to be nice or even all that polite, too used to his general grouchiness and anti-social tendencies. That superficial charm a majority of psychopaths are known for has never been one of Will’s characteristics. Of course, he can be charming when he needs to be but he much prefers to use his messed up neurons as a shield most of the time. 

There are exceptions though, like Alana and more importantly, Hannibal. 

The two of them were his most frequent visitors these last several days. Alana, with her perpetual need to _save_ , came around every couple of days, always brimming with concern. She made no secret of her dislike of Jack or the fact that she blamed him for the violence that erupted in Hannibal’s home. Her fears about her old mentor’s mental health after what he had to do were always intriguing to listen to. And the thick tension between her and Jack the one time their visits coincided was amusing to no end. 

Small distractions from the tedium of his ‘recovery.’ 

He even had the dubious pleasure of finally meeting Miss Lounds face-to-face, though her attempt at sneaking in dressed as a nurse to _interview_ Will proved to be both fruitless and quite embarrassing for the woman, though it was doubtful that she even possessed the ability to feel shame. 

But Hannibal on the other hand… he was the one that made Will’s convalescence even somewhat tolerable. 

The doctor got cleared unsurprisingly quickly, the F.B.I eager to sweep the entire clusterfuck with Hobbs under the rug and the evidence of its own incompetence along with it. Hannibal was congratulated on taking down a prolific serial killer and consoled about the severe trauma he had to endure in the process. Jack dished out the same treatment to Will, commending him for his efforts to protect Hannibal and even displaying some concern for his injury. 

Will was- and still is to be honest- quite amused by it all. 

His own actions in Baltimore were hardly born from a drive to protect. As for Hannibal’s _trauma_ , the man most certainly did not appear traumatized to Will. Or at least, not as traumatized as he should be. 

The first thing Hannibal did after he was done with the authorities was to visit Will, who was relatively drug-free and cognizant by that time. And it was that very first visit which finally _fully_ convinced Will that Hannibal Lecter was an individual worth thoroughly exploring. 

With an eager smile, Will delves into the pristine memory of that evening. 

 

_**11 days ago** _

 

Will woke to the sensation of a large, warm hand resting atop his forehead, far too gentle to be the cold, clinical touch of medical personnel but still retaining a sense of appraisal. 

“Hello, Hannibal,” he greeted, smiling without opening his eyes. The hand on his brow froze for a moment before it slowly relaxed again, gently creeping into his matted hair. 

“Good evening, Will.” 

He opened his eyes and blinked once to focus on the man sitting by his bed, upper body tilted noticeably towards him. Hannibal retained very little of the immaculate composure that characterized all of Will’s previous interactions with the man.  His fair fell messily into his face, the pale strands lacking their telltale luster and there were dark circles under his eyes, faint enough not be of too much concern. And though Hannibal’s face was arranged into a pleasant mask and his lips were quirked at the corners, Will could easily see through to the apprehension and exhaustion that lay beneath the surface. 

Will wanted to rip apart the mask and drink in everything that lay under. 

“The doctors told me that you’re recovering at an excellent pace. I’m very glad to hear that.” 

“So am I.” 

He raised the hand not hooked up to the IV to lightly caress one chiseled cheek, liking how it caused Hannibal’s smile to shift into something more real. 

“Don’t hide, Hannibal,” he whispered, properly cupping the man’s cheek. He did not clarify. There was no need. 

It was a very hypocritical demand of course, considering how Will himself thrived behind a carefully constructed veil of humanity. But then, Will has never put much stock in the concept of fairness. He wanted all of Hannibal regardless of whether or not he intended to give all of himself. 

Bewilderment flashed in the doctor’s maroon eyes and his mouth twisted into a strained grimace as Will’s words registered. 

“I keep forgetting how perceptive you are.” Hannibal admitted, shaking his head with something that seemed too somber to be true humor. He heaved a weary sigh and covered Will’s hand on his face with his own. 

Will could imagine all too easily the kind of picture they presented. A nice, sweet couple. He would laugh at the irony of it if only the situation allowed. 

“It takes some time to get used to. Not many stick around long enough.” 

“I want to.” The reply was nearly instantaneous and Hannibal immediately looked contrite. Will didn’t need empathy to understand that the doctor was wondering whether or not Will would want him around after the incident with Hobbs. 

“Good,” he said simply and the other seemed to relax a little. “I don’t hold you accountable for what happened, Hannibal.” 

Hannibal’s hand tightened perceptibly on his, sharp eyes searching his as if looking for any trace of a lie. 

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that, Will.” Hannibal finally told him, smiling a little before adding quietly, “Or perhaps you do.” 

_Do I?_  

He watched in silent fascination as Hannibal abandoned his rigid posture and slumped down somewhat, the hand covering Will’s dropping to rest on the hard hospital bed. He looked exhausted. 

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?” 

Hannibal smiled mirthlessly and said, “Three days.” 

Not since that night in Baltimore then. It was a miracle how the man was still conscious. 

Will frowned, displeased at the news and mildly concerned. 

“You said you would be okay,” he pointed out half-jokingly, “This is not okay, Hannibal.” 

Hannibal’s lips pressed into a thin line and _something_ flashed in his eyes, something that wasn’t fear or anger or horror or any of the emotions to be expected at this point. 

The doctor turned his face away from Will for a few seconds and when their gazes connected again, Hannibal’s eyes were free of anything significant. 

_What are you afraid I’ll see?_

“I may have overestimated myself,” Hannibal said, the words clipped. “Taking a life… it’s…”

“A terrible thing,” Will supplied, smiling inside even as concern and understanding saturated his words. “I _know_.” 

Predictably enough, Hannibal’s head snapped up at that, surprise and doubt coloring his eyes. 

“I killed a man once, when I was a cop. A serial rapist we were chasing.” Will took the hand that was still buried in his curls and tangled their fingers together, pleased when Hannibal squeezed back. “But if I hadn’t done that, he would have killed me. And escaped to destroy the lives of many others. Just like Hobbs would have killed us both and perhaps others in his demented efforts to possess his daughter. But _you_ stopped him. Never forget that. Sometimes… even murder can be justified.” 

Will found no reason to mention how he could have easily overpowered the man without killing him. 

Hannibal raised his head and gazed at Will for a long moment before nodding, once. 

“I… yes. Thank you.” 

Yet, there was something about the look in Hannibal’s eyes at that moment that called to mind the man’s ruthless kill and the vehemence in his gaze as he stood covered in Hobbs’ blood. 

Despite everything, Hannibal’s behavior wasn’t all that consistent of a man plagued by the horror of his actions. Oh, he appeared affected but Will’s specialty was to cut through the surface of men and expose all the gritty layers that lay underneath. And every single one of his senses told him that whatever it was that robbed Hannibal Lecter of sleep, it wasn’t something as asinine as _guilt._

An idea stirred in Will’s mind, one that brought with it a fresh wave of delight and intrigue. 

Everyone, regardless of race or gender, was capable of murder. But, not all were capable of surviving committing the act. A result, no doubt, of the modern society’s ruthless suppression of man’s base instincts. 

But the fervor he recalled witnessing in Hannibal that day and the secretive air that hung around the man even now was enough to make Will wonder whether Hannibal was one of the rare ones in whom those very same base instincts were far too evolved to ever be truly suppressed. 

And wouldn’t that be just _wonderful?_

The temptation to push and prod was strong, the desire to confirm whether his suspicion was true strangely intense. 

But for the moment, he remained silent and simply held the doctor’s hand a little tighter as if in reassurance, knowing that this was neither the time nor place for that particular conversation. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Hannibal. Only what you had to. And you will be okay. But first, you really need to sleep.” 

Hannibal chuckled, raising their entwined fingers to his lips to lightly kiss Will’s knuckles. 

“I don’t want to leave yet.” 

Will grinned at him and allowed his eyes to soften with a semblance of fondness. 

“I don’t want you to leave either. And you don’t have to. Rest here for a while.” 

“But-” Hannibal began to protest but quieted as he considered Will’s offer. After an instant, he sighed and said, “Thank you.” 

Neither of them said anything else as Hannibal folded his hands on the space beside Will on the bed and laid his head down with another long sigh. And after a moment of simply watching him, Will tentatively placed his hand on the man’s rumpled hair. He grinned when Hannibal hummed appreciatively at the touch and promptly carded his fingers through the thin, soft strands, liking how they felt against his skin. 

Hannibal fell asleep shockingly fast. 

* * *

 

It wasn’t really a surprise when Hannibal turned out to be a near-regular visitor, though much to the confusion of Alana. 

Conversation topics were never lacking with Hannibal; their discussions and debates varying from the most mundane subjects to complex psychological theories. 

He is, without even a sliver of doubt, the only one Will has ever encountered that is capable of truly matching wits with him. 

It is exhilarating. 

And Will knows that if the man continues as a consultant for Jack, the stakes will become much higher for himself. Hannibal is as dangerous as he’s interesting and in a way, keeping him close has more than one benefit. 

Both Hannibal and Alana offered to drive Will to his home upon his release from the hospital. Naturally, he picked Hannibal. 

“Will.” As if summoned by his thoughts, Hannibal appears, wearing a bright smile. “Ready to go?” 

“I’ve been ready to leave this place for the last two weeks,” he counters and smiles at the other’s answering laughter. 

* * *

 

Will spends a majority of the ride dozing, head tilted back to rest on the smooth, black headrest, lips parted ever so slightly, long, dark flashes fluttering now and then to lend an illusion of innocence to his visage in a way that has Hannibal unwisely glancing at him every few seconds. 

It’s far from a harmless distraction, Hannibal’s attention is in grave danger of being more focused on the man beside him than the road, but he can’t really help himself, just like he couldn’t all those times when he chanced upon a sleeping Will in the hospital. 

All those times, he satisfied himself with a soft stroke on a hollowed cheek or a quick caress of untamed curls, all the while resisting the urge to lean down and press his lips to Will’s forehead in a gesture that felt far too intimate for their quicksilver relationship. 

Hannibal still holds true to his initial assessment. Will Graham is truly a beautiful man. 

Will is no less an enigma to him now for all that they’ve grown closer recently. A ridiculously attractive enigma. 

And despite the numerous hours they spent together in the hospital, both engaged in conversation and in companionable silence, they never once discussed their… relationship. 

It doesn’t help that Hannibal’s mind seems intent on tormenting him with that chaste kiss they shared over dinner before all hell broke loose. Strange, how he seems to linger more on the memory of that wonderful dinner rather than violence that followed. 

If Hannibal didn’t know himself as well as he did, he would have thought that he’s suppressing the trauma of that night. But he does and so he knows that his guilt and horror over what he did has faded into pale, insubstantial things that affect him far, far less than his utter fascination with Will. 

_Sometimes even murder can be justified._

Hannibal has always been rather… selective about his emotions. Almost unconsciously so. 

And now, it is most definitely his curiosity- more personal than professional- about Will that plagues his thoughts. 

He’s well into his forties but Hannibal feels as if he’s experiencing a tamer, darker version of a schoolgirl crush. 

It all strange, uncharted territory and he couldn’t be more captivated. 

* * *

 

Will wakes with a quiet sigh when the car comes to a stop, the sudden absence of motion causing him to shift from slumber to wakefulness in a matter of seconds. His eyes fall on the familiar, welcome shape of his home and he smiles. 

There is no army of canines or chorus of barks to greet him when he steps out; Alana took them in while he was indisposed and will return them only tomorrow. Their absence is strange, to be honest. 

Will draws in deep breaths of crisp, fresh air and his smile widens. A relief truly, to be out of that horrendous hospital. Besides, it’s good to be home. He’s missed his little farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, neatly hidden amidst acres of forest land. 

Even monsters have their havens. 

Will turns to Hannibal and finds the doctor watching him with an intense gaze that somehow softens when their gazes meet. 

“Will you come inside?” he asks and it’s not merely courtesy that spurs the invitation. 

Hannibal accepts with a slight incline of his head and circumvents the car to join Will on the porch. 

Will feels a measure of amusement as they step into the organized chaos of his living room, contrasting so sharply with the pristine glory of Hannibal’s house. He shoots the older man a glance and finds him swiftly taking in the cluttered space, dark eyes flitting from the fly-tying apparatus by the window to the disused piano in the corner. To Hannibal’s credit, he keeps a straight face throughout the inspection, not even a hint of disapproval coloring his visage. 

Will steps closer to him, the moment drawing Hannibal’s attention. He doesn’t stop until he’s well into Hannibal’s personal space, their faces only an inch away. 

“I want to kiss you,” he says, flicking his eyes down to the other’s lips before meeting his gaze again. 

There were no explicit sexual or romantic undertones to their interactions while Will was in the hospital but the attraction was ever present, in lingering glances and gentle touches. Will was content enough then to give it some time, to let Hannibal dictate the pace for a while. 

But now, they’re in Will’s house and Hannibal is so conveniently here and… why wait? 

Hannibal’s eyes widen at the words and Will sees that he’s as receptive to the idea as one can be. 

“I don’t see what’s stopping you, Will.” 

This kiss is not chaste like their first, but Will keeps it gentle, ignoring the part of him that wants to ravage the mouth moving so beautifully against his, to bite and tear and make him bleed. 

_Not yet._

Hannibal’s lips part for him eagerly and Will slides his tongue along the other’s, touching and tasting and feeling with rising enthusiasm. He grips Hannibal by the shoulder to pull their bodies closer together and smiles into the kiss when Hannibal’s arms wrap astound his waist in a firm hold. 

Will pulls away slowly, reluctantly, unable to resist catching Hannibal’s lower lip between his teeth ad tugging as he does so. The doctor’s eyes flutter open at the loss but his lips twist into a pleased grin that Will mirrors. 

“I’ve thought about that a lot in the last two weeks,” Hannibal tells him, the hands on his waist gliding up his sides and along his arms to lock around his wrists. 

“I wanted to give you some time,” Will replies and accepts Hannibal’s answering kiss with a wide grin. 

“I don’t need time. Not for this.” 

“Good.” 

He finally steps away from Hannibal, resisting his more carnal urges in order to favor logic. Rushing into this won’t do any good and his interest in Hannibal runs far deeper than mere physicality. 

“I’m pretty sure that my kitchen is in quite a sad state now, but would you like some coffee?” Will asks, shooting a grimace in the direction of the aforementioned room. 

He’s going to have to restock his supplies soon. He was beginning to run out of meat even before he let himself be wounded. 

“I would greatly appreciate it.” 

Will grins and leans forward to kiss him again for good measure. 

* * *

 

Hannibal stayed for little over an hour, the duration of which was spent drinking bland coffee, discussing Will’s return to work and walking around the property. They exchanged a few more kisses, soft, light things that put the lightest of blushes and a pleased smile on Hannibal’s face by the time he left. 

Will enjoyed himself as well, enjoyed the way Hannibal sighed on-so-quietly against his mouth, how his eyes would half-close when Will stroked his face, his firm but tender touches… but most of all he enjoyed the raw desire he could _sense_ roiling under that delicate exterior and the knowledge that Hannibal Lecter was not even half as tame as he made himself appear. 

And it leaves Will wondering how long it will take for him to strip away all those insipid layers. 

He wants to know how the wild, graceful thing that tore into Hobbs so marvelously would _touch_ him; it is strong, the appeal even the mere thought of Hannibal’s more savage side holds for Will. 

_This is certainly the most exciting relationship I’ve ever had._

Temporarily putting away the thoughts of the doctor, Will retreats inside, taking off his shirt to bare his wounded shoulder, the instructions of both his doctor and Hannibal running through his head as the scarred skin comes into view. 

The new scar, small but angry, lies almost directly above the one he acquired during the stabbing incident in New Orleans though that one is now faded and barely visible. He gently runs a finger along the old one, remembering the distasteful event that provided him a convenient excuse to quit the police force as he had been wanting to for a while back then. He shifts his attention to the newly raised flesh and presses his finger to the damaged skin, the first pinpricks of pain rising at the sensation. He steadily increases the pressure until the edges of his blunt nails dig into the scar, sending electric jolts through his body. 

The pain is negligible; he’s certainly had much worse. And Will has high pain tolerance anyway, something that is quite useful in those relatively rare situations when his victims decide to grow claws and fight. 

The injury will smart for a while longer but it will not hinder his ‘hobby’. 

Will does need to hunt soon. 

Two weeks spent in near-absolute boredom in a dreary hospital can take its toll on one’s psyche. Moreover, he needs to restock his freezer. 

And perhaps, he could kill two birds with one stone and give Hannibal a gift while he’s at it. 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, a copycat murder courtesy of Will. It won’t be Cassie.


	5. Penki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I know you’re careful about what you put into your body,” Will tells him with a definite undercurrent of amusement, “But I hope that you trust me not to poison you.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“You brought me breakfast. You drove for over an hour in the morning to… bring me food?”_
> 
>  
> 
> _It sounds strange when put like that but Will seems unfazed and continues to smile cheerfully at Hannibal._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Yeah, I did. A simple protein scramble. Will you indulge me?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serving you,     
> ‘Murder. People food. Making out in the kitchen. Cockblocking Crawford. Gory tableaus. Manipulation. And the one and only Team Sassy Science.’    
> 
> Bon appétit.

What you seek is seeking you.

\- Rumi

 

 

Rachel Daniels is a victim of convenience. A young woman who was out for a good time and ended up in the wrong company. Dark hair, blue eyes, fair skin, slender build … she could be Abigail Hobbs’ sister.

She is perfect.

There are times when Will plays with his prey; cruel verbal games that leave their subject a broken wreck long before he takes them apart physically. But that is a treatment he saves for those who he believes are deserving of it. And Rachel has not earned his ire in that manner. She does, however, have a particularly foul mouth which annoys him until he dislocates her jaw.

She does not suffer too much.

* * *

 

The piercing ring of the doorbell that disturbs the serenity of Hannibal’s home at 7 am is certainly unexpected though not as much as the man he finds on the other side, with a lopsided grin and a tupperware container.

“Will!” Hannibal greets, surprise coloring his tone.

“Hey,” Will says, raising his free hand in a small wave, “I tried calling you but you didn’t answer. So I thought I’d come and see if you were here. Is this a bad time?”

“Of course not. My door is always open to you.”

Hannibal smiles, some of his alarm draining away, and he opens the door wider, stepping aside for Will to enter. He thinks of his cell phone and remembers leaving it on the nightstand the previous night after a brief conversation with none other than Will himself.

Hannibal inhales deeply as Will passes by him and has to fight off a grimace as he’s assaulted by the smell of some atrocious aftershave. He much prefers Will’s natural scent that he got a whiff off while the professor was in the hospital, though even that was tainted by the stale odor of antibiotics. He closes the door behind them, not missing the dark Volvo parked in his driveway.

“You drove all the way here,” he states with a note of concern in his voice, taking Will’s coat and hanging it up.

“Yes and before you ask, my shoulder is quite fine.”

Hannibal frowns but doesn’t protest and mutely accepts when Will hands him the container, an eyebrow raised in inquiry.

“I know you’re careful about what you put into your body,” Will tells him with a definite undercurrent of amusement, “But I hope that you trust me to not poison you.”

“You brought me breakfast. You drove for over an hour in the morning to… bring me food?”

It sounds strange when put like that but Will seems unfazed and continues to smile cheerfully at Hannibal.

“Yeah, I did. A simple protein scramble. Will you indulge me?”

“Of course, Will,” he replies automatically, trying to remember the last time someone cooked for him. He doesn’t think anyone has done it since he left his Uncle’s home decades ago. It’s generally the other way around and this occurrence feels rather strange. But not exactly unwelcome.

In the kitchen, Hannibal wonders, as he puts away the ingredients for the soup he was about to make, about the distinct lack of annoyance he feels at Will’s impromptu visit. He is a creature of order, preferring strict schedule and discipline in his life. Disruptions are not something he generally appreciates.

But he feels no such frustration at the current situation.

He blames it completely on his intense fixation on Will.

By the time he returns to the dining room, there are two plates of steaming scramble on the table and Will is standing with his back to Hannibal, perusing the paining of _Leda and the Swan_ on the wall.

“You know,” Will intones, turning to face Hannibal with a faint smirk playing on his lips, “You still haven’t asked me why I felt the need to barge into your house at this hour for no apparent reason.”

“Well, I assumed it was to feed me,” Hannibal replies with mock seriousness and Will laughs, eyes crinkling in delight.

“It is. I also wanted to see you. I’ve been terribly bored these last few days.”

Hannibal’s smile widens, pleased at the words. Though it has been only four days since he drove Will to his home, he’s quite glad to see the man again.

“You’re welcome here anytime, Will.” Will shoots him a considering look at the open invitation which melts into a soft smile that Hannibal returns.

Breakfast is delicious, the fare simple but wonderful. Hannibal is suitably impressed.

He tells Will as much and is charmed when the younger man’s face lights up, pale eyes shining joyously, at the compliment.

And Hannibal isn’t entirely sure if the warmth lingering in his chest is because of the food itself or the fact that Will bothered to do this for him.

Will offers to help with the dishes and Hannibal accepts easily, not at all averse to the company. And he’s only slightly taken aback when Will crowds him against the fridge to kiss him, fierce and insistent, with an intensity that their previous ones lacked. The urgency calls to life an answering fire in Hannibal and he eagerly takes control of the kiss, sliding his tongue into Will’s mouth, pushing their bodies close together. Will moans against his lips, sliding his hand into Hannibal’s hair and roughly grabbing a fistful, tugging on it none too gently as their lips and tongue join again and again in a frenzied dance.

They break apart reluctantly, both of them flushed and panting, still pressed together. Will’s eyes are dark, a far cry from their usual blue-grey, and Hannibal finds himself nearly mesmerized by the way they shine with desire and something  _else_. 

“I-” Will begins, voice rough and husky, only to be cut off when the doorbell chimes for the second time that morning.

They separate quickly and carefully avoid looking at each other as they straighten their clothes and hair.

Hannibal feels irritation well up inside him- the situation definitely warrants it- as he makes his way to the front door with Will trailing behind. He schools his face into a blank mask and opens the door to find a seemingly disgruntled Jack Crawford on his doorstep.

His irritation doubles.

“Dr Lecter.”

“Good morning, Agent Crawford,” Hannibal greets cordially but with little warmth, “What brings you here at this hour?”

“There’s been a murder,” Crawford tells him without preamble, “A girl fitting Garret Jacob Hobbs’ victim profile was found a few hours ago on the outskirts of Baltimore. I would appreciate your help on the case.”

For a moment, Hannibal is stunned. An image of the horrified visage of Hobbs flickers in his mind’s eye, bringing along with it the righteous _satisfaction_ he felt when sliding the sleek blade deep into the man’s chest.

He shakes the image with a blink, shoving the feelings into the depths of his structured mind so that they cannot interfere with his thoughts and steps back with a nod, motioning with his hand for Crawford to enter.

“Will? What are you doing here?” Crawford exclaims the second he steps into the foyer, narrowed eyes fixed on the man in question.

Hannibal turns to see Will standing by the door to the living room, wearing an inscrutable expression.

“I came to see Hannibal,” Will responds coolly, “I suppose I’m leaving now.”

Crawford makes no effort to hide his suspicion as his eyes flit the two between of them- Hannibal wonders if their faces bear any evidence of their interrupted intimacy- but they finally come to rest on Will thoughtfully.

“Will, would you-”

“No, Jack, I won’t take a look at the scene. I’m not an agent or even an official consultant,” Will cuts off Crawford in a tone that is as amused as it is stern and Hannibal watches with interest the resistance evident on the agent’s face, the obstinate desire to push and push until he gets what he wants.

It’s an admirable quality in an officer but Hannibal can’t help but think that Crawford could do with some… moderation.

“But I’ll take a look at the photos later if you want,” Will continues before the man can protest, “And if Hannibal is amenable, I can work with him on a profile.”

Will shoots a questioning glance at Hannibal and he nods his assent, only too keen on pursuing such an arrangement.

“Alright then. I guess I’ll head home. Goodbye, Hannibal. Jack.”

Will hurries out the door with a quick smile at Hannibal, who watches him go with no small amount of regret. Only once the Volvo disappears from his driveway does Hannibal head upstairs to change, leaving Crawford in the foyer vibrating with impatience.

* * *

 

The girl is displayed in a barren patch of land on the edge of Baltimore, torn and mounted, her bare body bent backwards over a pair of stag antlers.

There is a surprising lack of sexuality to the grotesque exhibit despite of the nudity and the antlers. In fact, Hannibal feels very little passion from this scene, just cold disdain and mockery. Up close, he can distinctly see the delicate crown of flowers fixed on her head, thin vines and amethyst blooms braided together.

“Admiration,” he murmurs under his breath, leaning forward to inspect the body more carefully. “Amethyst flowers signify admiration.”

“You think this copycat killer admired her?” Crawford asks from beside him with a mix of incredulity and irritation in his tone.

Hannibal has to swallow decidedly inappropriate laughter at the question.

Instead he maintains silence for a while, quietly contemplating the tableau with more interest than disgust. By the time Hannibal deigns to put the impressions he’s gathered into words, the agent is shifting impatiently beside him.

“No, Agent Crawford, he most certainly did not. There is no admiration in this kill. It’s mockery, pure and simple. Humiliation. Though I’m unsure whether it’s the girl he’s mocking or someone else. Same with the flowers. They’re not intended for her.”

For a moment, Crawford is silent, squinting quizzically at the girl’s body.

“You mean he’s mocking us, don’t you?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“And the flowers?”

“I don’t know, Agent Crawford,” Hannibal answers, gaze roving over the purple flowers, unmarred by even a drop of blood. “She was killed elsewhere and seemingly drained of blood. The killer took great care with the display as well- gave it meaning. I assume the stag’s head was stolen?”

“Yes. From Minnesota, of all places. No leads on that front though. No witnesses, no camera feeds, nothing. And thanks to Freddie Lounds’ wretched blog, it’s no secret that Hobbs used antlers to drain the girls he took.”

“But this isn’t a tribute to Hobbs,” Hannibal muses, more to himself than the other man, as he begins to slowly circle the impaled girl. “In fact, this can be seen as a mockery of him as well. This killer is a copycat but this kill is dramatic- artistic even- and the exact opposite of what Garret Jacob Hobbs did to his daughter’s doppelgangers. He cared for them, wanted to honor them… he killed them with love. There’s no love here.”

He finally tears his eyes away from the defiled corpse to regard the agent, who seems far from pleased by Hannibal’s observations.

“Why can’t these fuckers use some paper and ink to send their damned messages?” Crawford swears under his breath. Hannibal pretends not to hear him.

“I imagine you’ll find out more after the forensic analysis.”

Crawford nods, staring contemplatively at Hannibal who holds his gaze impassively. After a few moments, the man speaks, some of the aggravated anger draining out of his tone and turning it almost polite.

“Would you mind accompanying us to the lab, Dr Lecter?”

Hannibal smiles at the request, shaking his head.

“Not at all. I’m quite free until this afternoon.”

“Great. We can wind up here soon.”

Crawford stalks off to one of his employees and Hannibal hesitates for a moment before following him, shooting one last glance at the body.

All sharp contrasts and deadly artistry.

It is monstrously _beautiful._

* * *

 

Hannibal is only half-surprised when Crawford’s team finds nothing useful in the body or the crime scene. It’s not a common occurrence, this appalling lack of evidence, but the sheer execution of the kill was enough for him to surmise that they were dealing with an expert, and an extraordinary one at that.

What the autopsy reveals is much more startling.

The victim- Rachel Miranda Daniels, a resident of the Baltimore suburbs- was killed by a single stab wound to the heart.

Just like Garret Jacob Hobbs.

And while Crawford and the rest seem much more concerned about the girl’s missing lungs- removed post-mortem with an exactitude that borders on surgical precision- it is this quiet detail that interests Hannibal most.

It could be co-incidence; the injury itself isn’t too unusual after all. But if it is not, then the murder method and the amethyst blossoms combine to form a message that is both personal and worrisome in nature.

But he keeps his doubts to himself for the time being, the memories of the disastrous events that followed the last time he did so doing little to deter him. He has no proof, just a nagging suspicion and he does not wish to come off as paranoid, which is extremely probable if he shares this with the others. But he finds himself mulling over the scarce known variables in the case as he listens to Agents Price and Zeller argue about whether or not the killer was sexually repressed. Their banter is admittedly amusing but he also thinks it’s a good thing that Brian Zeller did not become a profiler.

“Agent Zeller,” he finally interjects when the final member of the trio- Beverly Katz- looks about ready to club them over their heads with frozen body parts, “I can’t speak authoritatively about the killer’s sexual proclivities but I can assure you that there is no such element to this particular murder. Rachel Daniels was nothing but meat to her murderer, a means to an end. Insignificant.”

The man seems ready to argue, eyes narrowing at Hannibal, but is distracted by his friend’s teasing.

Agent Katz shoots Hannibal an exasperated look and he smiles, entertained in spite of himself by their antics.

As he excuses himself, citing his need to return to his practice, he finds his thoughts wandering to Will and what he might have to say about Hannibal’s tentative theory.

* * *

 

Will has been expecting Hannibal or Jack or maybe both to come see him since last morning. Still, it is with a measure of cheerful surprise that he reacts when the doctor emerges from the shadows of his classroom after yet another lecture on a garden-variety psychopath, holding a file and smiling gently.

“Hello, doc.”

“Good afternoon, Will. Very astute lecture. You have a refreshing way of viewing those whom society labels as monsters.”

Will grins, leaning against his desk as he watches Hannibal’s approach.

“High praise from a prominent psychiatrist. I’m flattered.”

Hannibal’s smile widens and he comes to a stop in front of Will. His suit is almost tame today, a somber black with burgundy stripes, but it accents the lines of his body quite nicely.

As always, Will gets the impression that Hannibal’s grandiose suits are a well-crafted armor against the world, a shield of sorts between the real man inside and the society. Similar in a way to how Will wields his unique mentality as an excuse to keep everyone at bay but more subtle. Hannibal in the cozy privacy of his home is slightly, though not significantly, less guarded.

Will would very much like to chip away at that armor until the rawness underneath is entirely exposed and his for the taking.

“The praise is well-deserved, Will.”

“Oh, I know,” he replies plainly, without false modesty. “So, I assume this is not a social visit?”

In response, Hannibal hands him the file he brought with him and even though Will already knows exactly what he will find inside, he feels a primal thrill course through his body when glossy photographs of his own painstaking work stares back at him from within. He gives no outward sign of his excitement, communicating only curiosity as he unhurriedly flips through the pages.

“A copycat,” he murmurs after some time, raising his head to see Hannibal watching him with brazen fascination. “Tell me your thoughts.”

“The killer is not paying homage to Garret Jacob Hobbs,” Hannibal states with conviction, confident about his deductions and Will allows his mouth to curve in a faint smile. “She was killed in a manner that is the antithesis of Hobbs’ chosen method. This copycat didn’t even respect her. He merely used her to deliver a message.”

“Hobbs honored his victims,” Will takes over when the other pauses. “He would consider this a _waste_. This kill feels more like an insult than a tribute, but that’s not the primary purpose either. This message you mentioned… do you know what it is? And for whom it’s meant?”

Hannibal doesn’t respond beyond a slow blink, but there’s a tightness at the corners of his mouth, a solemn gravity in his gaze and Will knows that his ‘message’ got through loud and clear to its intended recipient.

_Perfect._

“Tell me what you think, Will,” Hannibal says in place of an answer and Will dutifully returns his attention to the file, inwardly amused.

He checks a couple of times that the relevant information is present in the file- the flowers and the stab wound- before speaking.

“In the language of flowers, amethyst stands for admiration. And before you ask, I know that because there’s a lot of random info rolling about in my head. I sincerely doubt that the killer was oblivious to this meaning. He wanted to express his admiration, but it’s meant for neither Hobbs nor the F.B.I.”

Will doesn’t really think of himself as a narcissist but the rapt attention with which Hannibal is currently regarding him is definitely something he can get accustomed to. A brilliant mind to understand, perhaps even appreciate, him is quite a heady experience.

“She was stabbed once in the heart,” Will closes the file with a snap, meeting Hannibal’s eyes, “Like Garret Jacob Hobbs. And you believe that the message is meant for _you._ ”

Hannibal nods, brisk and decisive, without fear or anxiety tainting his countenance. And Will can see that while the doctor is puzzled and perhaps concerned by the significance of his gift, he’s not afraid. 

_Interesting._

“Did you tell Jack?”

“No.”

Will raises an eyebrow at the doctor, bemused by the answer. After what happened with Hobbs, he was not expecting Hannibal to keep silent about a killer taking a shine to him.

“Uh… why not?”

“There’s no actual proof that I’m the target. I think Agent Crawford would find it much more plausible that the killer was attempting to communicate with Hobbs’ wife or daughter rather than me.”

“Proof has shockingly little to do with profiling, Hannibal.”

Hannibal sighs, leaning against the desk beside Will.

“I know. I simply wanted some confirmation before I relayed my thoughts to Agent Crawford.”

“You think Jack would be more willing to believe this if it came from us both?”

“He respects my insights. However, he has quite a lot of faith in your ability.”

Will does not deny that, though he thinks that Jack is liable to focus more on Hobbs’ family in connection with this case regardless of whether or not he believes the two of them. Even now, the man is convinced that the mother and daughter knew about Hobbs’ crimes despite the lack of any solid evidence.

It doesn’t matter though, not really. It was fun, to rectify the errors in the Shrike’s design and elevate his work to art, serenading Hannibal and bothering Jack in the process. But he has no intention of creating another improved replica again. 

Will turns his head to look at Hannibal who’s staring straight ahead with a contemplative expression, seemingly lost in thought. Will’s gaze lingers on the sharp lines of his face before trailing down the inviting curve of his body. He indulges in a brief of fantasy of dropping to his knees before the man and taking him in his mouth, and wonders what kind of filthy noises he'd be able to drag out of the perpetually composed doctor.

He will find out. Soon.

“I think-” Will starts, affecting an air of thoughtful reluctance which instantly attracts Hannibal’s attention, “-that I might be developing something of an interest in field work.”

He’s been ruminating on this ever since the hospital. The only reason he chose to become a teacher and not an agent was that there was less scrutiny that way. He wanted, then, to avoid any unnecessary risks.

Self-preservation is still the topmost of his priorities but Will is painfully aware of the way boredom has been creeping into his life of late, slowly but surely seeping into even his kills. A once satisfying routine now rendered dull by a distinct lack of _challenge_.

A game loses all excitement when it becomes too easy.

However, he kept on refusing Jack and his relentless efforts to enlist Will’s help until now; hesitant to cross that line into a territory he knows he will not be able to retreat from. And now, with Hannibal in the game, the stakes have risen- the doctor’s keen mind a force to be reckoned with- and yet Will finds the increased menace to be all the more tempting for it.

He’s still doubtful of this course of action, all of his ingrained instants protesting against such recklessness, but he knows himself too well to think that he’ll be content to remain uninvolved for much longer and he has more than enough confidence in his abilities to brave the very distant possibility of his own ruin.

And truly, the enthusiasm not at all hidden by the surprise on Hannibal’s face is worth the abruptness of his announcement.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” Hannibal asks, dark eyes alight with intrigue.

“It’s something I used to enjoy, back when I was a detective. It felt good to use my empathy to help people, like I was doing something worthwhile with it instead of merely drowning in a volley of unwanted impulses.” Bits and pieces of truth mixed in with the lies; it’s better this way, he’s learned. More effective.

It did feel good for a while to use his gift so freely, constantly honing it until his mind was as sharp as the finest of blades. That was when it became tedious. Gradually, even the fun drained out of his work until only boredom and disdain remained. He always did get bored too quickly.

He got out soon after that, though not without a scar to show for it.

Hannibal nods and his expression suddenly makes him appear every bit the psychiatrist Will knows him to be. It’s a facet of the man Will has witnessed only few times, fleeting glimpses in the midst of their many conversations. He moves a little closer to Hannibal until he can feel the heat of him through the layers of clothing.

“Then why did you stop?”

“Because it started taking its toll on me. These killers, they worm their way inside and they _linger_. Until the lines are blurred and I’m a creature made of the fragments a million twisted souls. They always faded eventually but towards the end, I began to feel… adrift. Lost inside myself.” Will smiles, a grim stretch of lips that wins him a frown from the other man. “It was quite frustrating.”

Hints of truth in this as well, albeit an obsolete one. That was how it was in the beginning, when Will was just discovering exactly how different he was from everyone else. Ruled by his empathy, lost in the mind of others- he was something of a shattered jigsaw puzzle back then. It was never as severe as Will just made it sound; he was lucky enough to find his true calling before that. But all he had to do was turn his empathy inward to know that had he continued to suppress his darkness, then the unstable man he just described would have been none other than himself.

It’s a good thing then that he was smart enough to avoid that fate.

Hannibal seems singularly focused on Will, eyes lit with ardent fascination and so he continues, spinning the tale in a manner meant to appeal to his captive audience of one.

“I do enjoy teaching, but lately, and especially after the incident with Hobbs, I just, uh, want to do more.”

They’re both quiet for a while, simply staring at each other with shuttered eyes. As relatively difficult as it is for him to read Hannibal, it’s fairly evident that the prospect of Will doing field work is one that greatly appeals to the psychiatrist.

Perhaps it is simply _professional_ curiosity but Will thinks it’s something much less harmless than that.

Either way, Hannibal’s next words assure him that the result of his play is undoubtedly the one he wished for.

“If losing yourself is what you fear,” Hannibal tells him, raising a hand to lightly cup Will’s cheek, leaning closer, “Then let me be your anchor.”

The sweet kiss that Hannibal pulls him into tastes like victory.

 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I take so long to update this fic… 
> 
> To those of you wondering where Abigail is, she’ll show up very soon.


	6. Šeši

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For a while, Abigail doesn’t react and Will slowly reaches across the bed to cover her smaller hand with his, taking it in a gentle hold when she doesn’t seem outwardly upset at the gesture._
> 
>  
> 
> _“I want to help you, Abigail. But I can’t do that unless you let me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serving you,   ‘More murder. Influenced suicide. Manipulation. More manipulation. Will being a psychopathic creep. Blow job.’    
> 
> Bon appétit.

Things come apart so easily when they’ve been held together with lies.

\- Dorothy Allison

 

“Hello?”

“Louise Hobbs?”

  

~

 

After a long week spent grading papers and catching up on his lectures while finding fresh meat to replenish his stock, Will would’ve greatly appreciated a quiet Saturday afternoon. Jack Crawford, on the other hand, seems to have no such consideration for the newest member of his team.

Will thinks, as he makes the lengthy drive from his isolated farm in Wolf Trap to the Sinai Hospital in Baltimore, that it’s partly his own fault anyway.

Jack didn’t tell him a whole lot on the phone but the sparse information he imparted was more than adequate to rouse Will’s interest enough for him to not even put up a token protest before agreeing.

_Abigail Hobbs just confessed to being her father’s accomplice._

An unexpected move on the girl’s part, given her stubborn refusal to admit to anything during the official interrogation. But Will has a good idea what about prompted this abrupt confession in spite of Jack’s purposeful withholding of the finer details of the matter. He’s still curious to find out the entire story though; it’s sure to be entertaining at the very least. The brief glimpse into Abigail's mind he had before is enough to assure him that the girl would’ve done her best to portray herself as a victim. It’s the smartest and safest thing to do and she is far from stupid.

It’s a good thing that the Hobbs were staying in Baltimore with Louise Hobbs’ mother. It’s much closer than Minnesota.

By the time he reaches Belvedere Ave, even the lingering remains of his irritation at his ruined rest has vanished, a quiet kind of excitement taking its place. He supposes that he really should be grateful to Alana for facilitating his involvement in this case _and_  Hannibal. They are, without doubt, the most interesting things that have happened to him in years.

And he’s not surprised, when he seeks out the room Jack named, to find none other than Alana herself waiting in the corridor.

“Will,” she greets, walking towards him with a light smile that doesn’t reach her eyes as it usually does. It’s easy to see the lines of anger on her face even at a single glance; curling the corners of her full pink lips and burning like embers in the deep grey of her eyes, giving her more _life_ than her usual cool countenance ever could. 

Alana Bloom wears anger beautifully.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Will says, returning her smile with a faint one of his own.

“I was acting as a therapist to both Abigail and Louise. I came here as soon as I heard.”

“I’m not exactly sure what happened. Jack didn’t tell me much.”

It doesn’t escape Will how Alana’s steps are brisk and short, her entire body language screaming her fury for all those willing to observe. He has the sneaking suspicion that Jack has a part to play in its reason. Alana and Jack have never had a smooth relationship. They have too different ideologies and are too rooted in their own righteousness to ever co-exist peacefully. It’s not at all hard to imagine how they must have clashed in the light of this new revelation regarding Abigail. 

“Louise killed herself.” Alana sounds genuinely pained in that covert way of hers, almost as if the woman’s death impacted her on a personal level. Perhaps it did. As insistent as she was about always keeping her patients at a professional distance, Alana did care a little too easily. “Abigail found her. She didn’t take it well.”

She doesn’t elaborate any more than that and Will doesn’t ask her to. He can effortlessly picture the frenzied rush following the tragic discovery that resulted in Abigail being admitted here with a police officer standing guard at her door, probably at Jack’s insistence.

“Jack told me she confessed.”

Alana’s mouth draws into a tight line at that, but Will isn’t certain whether her displeasure is aroused by Jack’s mention or the reminder of Abigail’s crimes.

“I know,” she replies curtly after a moment, forcing a smile immediately afterwards as if in apology. “I was there.”

Will nods, internally pondering over the faint defensiveness hiding in Alana’s tone, clearly meant on the girl's behalf. If Alana is still supporting Abigail, then it can only mean that Will was right about the girl presenting herself as a victim.

_Excellent._

Before either of them can speak again, Jack arrives, striding towards them with his eyes fixed on his phone, a severe scowl twisting his features rather unpleasantly. He stops beside Abigail’s room to talk for a second to the man at the door. He puts the phone away and continues forward, eyes coming to rest on Will.

Jack’s reaction is instantaneous, an emotion that is delightfully close to anger curling his lips into a strained grimace. Will nods at him in greeting, keeping his face devoid of the mirth he feels as he recalls their last interaction.

Will’s decision to do field work for Jack was predictably met with extreme enthusiasm, approval coloring the head of the B.A.U’s words as he promised Will a number of inconsequential things, his mental wellbeing the chief among them. But alas, Jack did not take the rest of what Will had to say on that day with the same amount of satisfied delight.

_You have an unfortunate tendency to view people as tools, Jack. You use them until they break and then find gentle ways to discard them. I imagine you believe that’s justified. And it is, to a certain level. But please understand that I will never be one of them. You do not own me, never forget that._

Jack just didn’t appreciate Will’s gift all that much when turned against him.

And now, the lingering irritation from their previous encounter is writ large across the man’s face as he stalks over to where Will and Alana are standing further down the hallway.

“I assume you know what happened?” Jack asks Will, conspicuously avoiding looking at Alana.

“More or less,” Will answers, an eyebrow raised in silent request for further explanation. After all, Jack has yet to tell him why he called him here.

“I want you to talk to Miss Hobbs, Will. I need to know if her guilt extends farther than she claims.”

“She’s not a murderer, Jack,” Alana cuts in, with the exasperation characteristic to one who has stressed a point one too many times. Will can feel the glare she’s shooting Jack. “She is as much as a victim as the girls her father killed.”

“You don’t know that, Dr Bloom. We found records that show that the girl was with her father while he chose the victims."

“She has already admitted that! I’m her therapist, Jack. I know what she’s like and I’m telling you she’s not the cold-blooded psychopath you think she is.”

“Then why did she lie to us?” Jack counters and Will can hear his conviction in his voice, the harsh belief that the girl is guilty. “When Will interviewed her, she quite clearly stated that she was completely ignorant of Garret Jacob Hobbs’ murders. Now, the mother commits suicide and she’s singing a different tune. What’s makes you so sure about her honesty?”

“Let me talk to her,” Will says when Alana fails to immediately respond. He turns to face the woman, seeking out her angry gaze. “I won’t pressure her, Alana. I promise.”

Alana nods, acquiescing easily, her trust in Will more solid than in Jack. He gives her shoulder a friendly squeeze as he walks away from the group, sharing a quick look with Jack as he brushes past the man.

* * *

 

Abigail is sitting propped up in her bed when Will enters her room, unfocused eyes fixed on the hands folded listlessly on lap. She doesn’t even look up at his presence.

“Abigail?” he calls, voice low and neutral.

Her head snaps up at the sound of her name, looking straight at Will with eyes filled with fear and a wariness far beyond her tender years. She looks so very young, bringing to his mind a scared little girl who tried her best to protect herself with clever lies but finally caved under the weight of it all.

It was more than just fear that tethered Abigail to her father; it was the terrible secret they shared that gave the girl enough strength to put on a veil of normalcy and live as if she wasn’t playing a monster. Will thinks it’s the burden of doing it alone that got her in the end, the death of her mother- the one other person who could identify even a little with her- the final straw.

It’s all so fascinating.

“You’re the guy who interviewed me,” Abigail says, her voice calm despite the emotions churning in her gaze.

“Yes,” Will replies, lowering himself into the chair by the bed and leaning forward until the tips of his fingers are brushing the bed. “And I’d like to talk to you again, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ve already told Dr Bloom everything I know. Agent Crawford as well.”

“I know. I’d just like to hear it from you.”

Abigail’s expression is such that he expects her to refuse but after a moment, the stubborn set of her jaw crumbles into something sad and resigned.

“It’s because they don’t believe me, isn’t it? They think I’m like him.” She seems to be talking more to herself than Will, but the look she shoots Will is so piteous that he’s assured it is only half-genuine.

Abigail Hobbs has an interesting predilection towards manipulation.

“Abigail,” Will calls, masking his amusement with little effort and offering sympathetic understanding in its place. “I’ve met your father. I’m intimately familiar with what he’s capable of. And I know he’s a monster with as much certainty as I know that _you_ are not.”

Abigail bites her lip uneasily and her eyes flicker to Will’s shoulder for a brief instant before returning to his face. It is no surprise to find that she knows about his involvement with her father. Freddie Lounds, with her characteristic tenaciousness, managed to publish an article about the events that led to Garret Jacob Hobbs’ end in a light that was less than flattering for the Bureau but did not inflict too much damage on Hannibal and himself. 

“Then why are you here?” She finally asks, the barest hint of accusation creeping into her words.

“Because Jack wants to know for sure whether you’re telling the whole truth. And I… have a knack for people.”

_A knack for monsters in particular._

_But you’re no monster, my dear._

For a while, Abigail doesn’t react and Will slowly reaches across the bed to cover her smaller hand with his, taking it in a gentle hold when she doesn’t seem outwardly upset at the gesture.

“I want to help you, Abigail. But I can’t do that unless you let me.” 

In the end, she nods, giving him a shaky smile to which he responds with an encouraging nod.

“I- I was the lure…”

* * *

 

Predictably enough, Jack is none too pleased when Will’s verdict is in favor of Abigail. But he backs off with dignity when both Alana and Will oppose his steadfast belief that the girl is a murderer. All three of them know that this will not be their last discussion on this matter.

Will isn’t even lying, not really. While Abigail is most definitely exaggerating her helplessness, she is no longer lying about the extent of her involvement in the murders. She lured the girls, befriended them and spied on them. She sacrificed them; sent them to slaughter in her stead. 

He sees no need to mention how there’s something inside Abigail that’s _broken_ in a way that can never be fixed.

It’s a subtle fissure; a faint but deep crack in her otherwise flawless psyche. It isn’t the kind of damage that is capable of being dangerous on its own and yet it calls to Will, begging to be molded into something lovely and destructive. Will looks at Abigail Hobbs and sees the potential.

He wants to succeed where her father failed and _shatter_  her.

“Where are you taking her once she’s discharged?” he asks Alana once Jack is gone. There’s no reason for Abigail to be here now that she’s awake. In fact, it’s only the ramifications that arose as a result of her confession that prolonged her presence even this long.

“I made some calls,” Alana replies, much more relaxed now than she was when Will arrived. “She’ll be staying at Port Haven Psychiatric Facility until things are sorted out.”

Will hums in affirmation, shooting the woman a sideways glance. Alana’s face betrays very little of what she’s feeling inside, the beautiful planes of it smooth and blank in a manner that tempts Will to reach out and stroke it, to cut and rip until everything inside is laid bare. It’s a desire he feels tenfold when faced with Hannibal, whose poker face is effortless and nearly impenetrable.

“You’re upset that Abigail is not as innocent as she first claimed but you still wish to protect her.” 

It’s delivered as a simple statement, no judgment staining his words but Alana’s reaction is no less strong for it. She sucks in a sharp breath, plush lips thinning in consternation and she turns to give Will a reproachful look.

"You have some nerve trying to psychoanalyze me." Her eyes seem to scream the words at him, much to Will’s amusement.

“Yes. Abigail is a victim and I won’t let Jack sacrifice her in place of her father.”

“She is going to need extensive psychiatric care, Alana. From someone she can trust, someone who’s on her side.”

“You’re not very subtle, Will.”

He grins, chuckling at the exasperation in her tone. It brings a smile to Alana’s lips and her gaze drops to his mouth for a barely noticeable instant before she turns to stare straight ahead of her, the faintest of blushes painting her porcelain cheeks.

He very eagerly anticipates the day Alana will actually summon the courage to make a move. It will be a fun end to Will’s deliberate but covert encouragement of her interest in him. He would love to see her lovely eyes dull with bitter disappointment.

“I wasn’t trying to be. Abigail trusts you and she needs you. I’m not sure if she knows it, but she does.”

Alana merely nods in response but there’s a determined glint in her eyes when she looks over her shoulder at the girl’s room. For better or worse, Abigail has a champion in Alana Bloom.

A well-connected champion.

He doesn’t stay for much longer, leaving after a few minutes of idle chat. 

Once in his car, he pulls out his phone after a moment of consideration and calls Hannibal. Since he’s in Baltimore, it’d be a pity not to pay the doctor a visit.

* * *

To say that Hannibal is happy to receive him is a gross understatement. The doctor is positively beaming as he welcomes Will into his home, greeting him with an intense kiss that leaves them both breathless when they part.

And his reaction to the news about the Hobbs family is just as rewarding, if not more so. Hannibal seems morbidly curious about the fate of the girl, siding with Will and Alana on the matter of her culpability. Will is pleased by how he brushes off Louise’s death without so much as a blink.

It is only during dinner- the food is _exquisite_  yet again- when their conversation strays to the girl once more that Will asks, “Would you like to visit her?”

The question gives Hannibal pause, the man halting with his fork halfway to his mouth to consider it.

“I’m no sure if that’s a good idea given the fact that I killed her father.”

It’s not a no. Will does wonder if it is merely curiosity or something stronger that’s the basis of Hannibal’s evident desire to see the girl and he doesn’t ask outright, leaving that for another time. 

“You won’t know until you try. I’m thinking of visiting her soon, talk to her. I’m not sure why, but I would like to help her get through this.” It’s pretty obvious that the idea is appealing to Hannibal. And so Will persists, taking care that his words remain on the right side of persuading. “Come with me? We’ve all been affected adversely by Garret Jacob Hobbs and Abigail is certainly the one who’s suffering the most. We might be able to ease that suffering.”

It only takes a few more coaxing words to convince Hannibal, the doctor’s own desire to see the girl doing most of the work for Will.

Of course, Will doesn’t think Alana would be too thrilled about this plan. Nor does he care.

The night finds Will settled in Hannibal’s cozy study, sprawled beside the doctor on the wonderfully plush couch, both of them sated and loose-limbed from good wine and good food. Will really should go home. It’s late and Wolf Trap is a long way away. But he feels as reluctant to leave as Hannibal is to see him go.

Tearing his gaze away from the flames crackling quietly in the fireplace, Will turns to observe Hannibal, admiring how the pale light accentuates the striking planes of his face. In a motion that is as fluid as it is abrupt, he throws a leg over Hannibal, situating himself on the man’s lap, swallowing his startled exclamation by catching his lips in a thorough kiss.

Hannibal parts his mouth willingly with a breathy sigh and Will licks into his mouth, sliding his tongue along Hannibal’s, tasting wine and spices and the subtle flavor of the man himself underneath it all. His hands roam freely over Hannibal’s shoulders and chest, over cloth-covered skin as Hannibal wraps his arms around Will’s waist to pull him closer. Not breaking their kiss, Will undoes the first few buttons of the crisp white shirt that enticingly hugs Hannibal’s firm body, trailing his fingers along the exposed skin until they catch on the fine hairs dusting his chest.

Will draws away to look at Hannibal, smirking at his heavy-lidded gaze, lips red and wet from kissing, strands of pale hair escaping their gel prison.

“Food and kissing,” Will murmurs with a languid stretch that pushes their torsos flush together. “That’s all we ever seem to do.”

Hannibal smiles, sliding his palms along Will’s back to grip him by the shoulders and pull him in for a chaste peck.

“I’m open to more,” he retorts, mouthing along Will’s jaw.

Will bares his teeth in a pointed grin and proceeds to kiss his way down Hannibal’s throat, brushing his lips around the revealed sliver of his chest without pausing to explore further. He slides off Hannibal’s lap and onto the floor, settling between the man’s spread legs.

“That’s good.” Will playfully winks at Hannibal, appreciating how the befuddled expression on the other’s face shifts to one of shock when Will reaches to palm Hannibal through the soft fabric of his slacks. He wastes no time unzipping Hannibal’s fly with nimble fingers to take out his mostly soft cock, earning himself a mumbled ‘What-’

Hannibal is wavering between alarm and desire when Will takes him in his mouth, swallowing down the pliant length of him, pleased to feel it harden swiftly within the warm confines of his mouth. Will is mindful of his teeth as he bobs his head along Hannibal’s cock with deliberate slowness, closing his eyes and shutting out all other sensations to fix the bulk of his focus on the _taste_ \- drinking in the visceral masculinity of the other.

A light touch, as a faint as a feather, on his cheek catches Will’s attention and he allows his lids to open a fraction to gaze up at Hannibal. He finds him staring at Will with a beautifully flushed face, eyes bright with lust and breath reduced to tense panting. The hand not touching Will is clutching the edge of the couch, long fingers straining against the sleek leather as Hannibal visibly struggles to remain in control of himself- regrettably succeeding.

Will uses the hand not wrapped loosely around the base of Hannibal’s shaft to take hold of the hand on his face, moving it to his hair and curling the fingers around a few strands. He smiles around his mouthful when Hannibal tightens the grip, groaning low in his throat at the wonderful pressure on his scalp. He continues his ministrations with unbridled eagerness, sliding a hand inside his own slacks to fist his erection and stroking in time with the movement of his head. Soon enough, Hannibal starts to buck his hips, little, restrained jerks that become more and more erratic as his control falters. Will takes a great amount of smug satisfaction in the choked gasps that escape the doctor, those drawn out sounds of ecstasy that seem to be torn out of the man against his will.

He slides his mouth to the very tip, pulling the foreskin back with a thumb to suck at the head. He tongues the slit now wet with tangy precome and Hannibal’s hand flexes convulsively in his hair, his gasps turning into low moans.

“Will, wait- stop, I’m going to-”

Hannibal groans roughly and throws his head back with a raw groan when Will swallows him down with increased vigor, taking in as much of him as he can in this angle, fisting the rest. A few more tormenting sucks and clever swirls of tongue and then Hannibal is coming with a rough thrust of his hips and an aborted cry for God on his lips. Will swallows his release with no hesitation, pumping himself harder with each twitch of Hannibal’s cock in his mouth. He releases the limp shaft to press his face to Hannibal’s clothed thigh, biting down lightly as his climax oars through him, his mind blanking for a few, blissful seconds.

He goes readily when Hannibal tugs him up with both hands, wrapping himself around the older man with contented ease. They both lie like that for some minutes, breathing heavily from the lingering effects of their orgasms. Hannibal’s disheveled look is a far cry from his usual self-possession and Will likes him like this, breathless and dazed from the pleasure he gave him.

It’s all so lovely, surpassing even the extensive reaches of Will’s imagination.

“That was sudden,” Hannibal finally speaks, his voice thick and muffled from where his mouth is pressed to the side of Will’s neck. He can feel Hannibal’s grin on his skin.

“I can be rather impulsive at times,” Will responds, threading his hand through the doctor’s hair. “I’m just usually better at controlling myself.”

Not a lie, save for the implication that Will did not _plan_  this. It evokes the desired response when Hannibal raises his head to snare his mouth in a fierce kiss.

“It’s late,” Hannibal tells him when they break apart and Will senses the barest hint of uncertainty in his tone. “Would you like to stay?”

The offer is neither unexpected nor unwelcome and Will only pauses for an instant to make it appear as if he’s considering it.

“I would appreciate that. If it’s not a bother.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if it was.” Hannibal’s eyes crinkle merrily at the corners as he smiles, wide and joyous. “I have a guest room, if that’s what you prefer. Or we could share mine.”

It’s a pretty easy choice.

* * *

 

Louise wasn’t that hard to break.

It was hardly easy to establish contact with her initially, the severely traumatized woman naturally wary of the phone calls from a stranger who claimed to be a sympathetic soul. But Will has always possessed an uncanny ability to say what he need to say to get what he wanted. Louise’s loneliness and grief only worked in his favor.

A few days and his odd calls were the brightest thing in her life- a strange but soothing reprieve from the tragic events of her recent past and her distant daughter- _Abby has always been a daddy’s girl and now oh God_ – who rarely even spoke to her.

She didn’t even notice when his words became laced with sweet poison. And she proved to be so fantastically receptive to suggestions, the murmured promises of absolution. _Release_  from all this strife.

And when the time came, she steadfastly believed that the decision to take her life was her own.

She even apologized when she bid him farewell.

  

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry this took so long but I am dealing with a bad case of writer’s block. It’s annoying and frustrating and pisses me off to no end. I’m hoping that it’ll go away soon. Also, my tab and computer have recently entered into a hate-hate relationship... so I have no idea when my next update will be :-(

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal’s reason for not being a homicidal cannibal will be explained in time. Oh and, this Will is not so averse to eye-contact. He’s still anti-social. I’ll tweak their personalities a bit though.
> 
> Kudos are love. Comments are true love. English is not my mother tongue, so feel free to point out any mistakes.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://silverangelfeathers.tumblr.com).


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